The Opera's Playwriter
by grimmylikesazrael
Summary: Two years after the POTO story, one year after Moulin Rouge, Christian goes to the Opera Populaire seeking a job. Okay, crapedy summary, but please read and see how you go? POTO Moulin Rouge. Erik/Christian slash.
1. Chapter 1

9

**Okay, here's the deal – this ENTIRE STORY was made up while walking with my friend in my street then to a park then SITTING in the park, eating cookies. So the story belongs to her and I, but the characters, damn them, belong to **_**Phantom of the Opera **_**and **_**Moulin Rouge**_**. After we'd finished making it up, I asked if I could write it down, and she said, 'Well, what was the point of that if we don't post it?'**

**Chapter One**

Erik sat high above the stage, watching the chorus girls running around below him, getting into their positions and practicing while the sets were moved behind them. They jumped and glided and pirouetted, elegantly, gracefully, doing their best to look as beautiful and enchanting as they could.

There was absolutely nothing satisfying about any of it.

Erik grumbled as he sat in the rafters and slung himself up so that he was leaning back against the wood and looking at the wood across from him. Wood didn't sound like a word anymore.

He was irritated, of course. Christine hadn't bothered to talk to him in the last week – she only needed him when a new show was coming on. That was the only real time he could talk to her now, since her and Raoul had become engaged, then married. Now all she did was fawn over her fop husband and talk about her singing in a way that seemed immensely boastful.

He sighed. At least when she was talking about her singing she was still making _contact _with him.

Now he didn't _hate _Raoul, but he didn't particularly like him either. He'd let Christine and the Vicomte be with each other – he should've realised, even if he _had _just lost everything in the past five minutes, that it would've led to marriage. But still, they were _made _for each other. Erik was made for no one. He was simply alone.

He was barely listening when he heard one of the idiotic managers – Firmin – clapping his hands and saying, 'Attention, attention!' Erik only realised how much noise there was when everyone had silenced suddenly. He closed his eyes, half-waiting for Firmin's speech on how the opera house was da-da-da, or that the ballet was not et cetera, continuing on, so on, so on and so on.

To his surprise, they had covered the damage on the opera house. Only because that would bring back the customers, therefore there would be money and money made Firmin and Andre exceptionally happy.

But the speech on Opera House Problems never happened. Instead, Firmin said, 'We would like to introduce our new play writer: Mister – erm – Mister...'

Erik waited. Obviously it was someone not of much importance to anyone, if no one bothered to learn their names.

'The writer,' Firmin finished triumphantly.

Erik rolled his eyes; he should've known when he heard that idiotic man say 'play writer'.

'Anyway,' Firmin continued but his voice was interrupted quite suddenly by a break-out of chatter from the chorus girls, who sounded excited and determined.

'That's Christian,' he heard one girl whisper.

Erik frowned, opening his eyes. Pulling himself to his feet, he looked down and saw the managers standing proudly amongst the crowd, with a young man standing very unwillingly between them. He seemed as if he rather wished he was not the centre of attention. His blue eyes held pain – well hidden pain for the moment, as he was trying to act freely in front of the managers, but pain nonetheless.

The phantom's interest increased and he leaned forwards, trying to focus on the writer. Christian, yes, there had been the play at the Moulin Rouge, in which the unfortunate Satine had –

Erik remembered how he had first learned of the writer. That had been nearly a year ago, just after the opera house had been rebuilt.

--

_He was dizzy and he had no idea what had caused it._

He'd been watching Christine all day and for some reason he just felt so... _dizzy_, seeing as how all the blood had rushed downwards. He couldn't think straight and it was mildly annoying, mostly a blessing. His breathing was too fast and the only thing he could think of was Christine – _God, how did she look so good just – being her?_

Erik stumbled back as the memory hit him like a tidal wave, tripping over some kind of object that he couldn't care less about, falling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. He was in an empty hallway, as everyone right now was watching the first performance, the grand reopening – _Christine _– he really should be in Box Five, but if he went there, something worse could happen.

He needed to make this stop. It was _torture_.

There had to be _something _he could do. Where was a place in Paris that could possibly get this over with?

The answer was in his mind too quickly, so he decided he'd been thinking about it at some point during the day – when, he didn't know, had he even been _thinking _for most of the day? –

The Moulin Rouge.

He was momentarily disgusted with the idea of even _going _to that place – it had the wrong _kind _of music, the wrong kind of girls –

_Do NOT think about that –_

He made up his mind in a second – he'd go.

--

The trip had been different and, as he had not been thinking very clearly, he'd nearly been run over by carts a few times. He'd tried to stick to the shadows after that.

He'd barely gone outside the opera house and when he had, he'd never gone _anywhere _near the Moulin Rouge. He had heard many a man talk of it inside the opera house, disgusted that they would talk about such a place within the Opera Populaire's walls. Opera and courtesans were _not _the same.

Some way or the other, he found himself suddenly inside the windmill building, with the lights and the music, and was surprised when at least four girls suddenly clung to him.

'How're _you _tonight, ay? Love the mask. You goin' for the whole darkness thing?' asked one girl, smiling toothily at him and tugging his arm, reaching up and touching the porcelain mask. She really wasn't wearing very much at all.

Erik pulled his arm away, suddenly stony. He shouldn't have come here. This was stupid. He actually felt pretty head-clear now (_perfect timing_, he thought snidely). The other girl smirked at him, grabbed his arm again and pulled up a lot closer. He was about ready to kill someone and disappear when suddenly there was a burst of sudden music. The girl looked up, squealed and ran to the middle of the floor, where several other girls, also not wearing much, were standing. They were saying a phrase in French Erik would rather not have heard.

A rather fat man with a top hat appeared suddenly and began singing as the girls moved around him. He appeared to own the Moulin Rouge, Erik decided, as he heard the lyrics to the song.

'..._I've just the antidote_

_And though I mustn't gloat _

_At the Moulin Rouge! You'll have fun!_

_So scratch that little niggle_

_Have a little wiggle –_'

Erik decided he wanted nothing more to do with this place. He turned to leave but was suddenly blocked by men, who were waltzing and swaggering in, eyeing greedily anything that moved.

He retreated into the shadows, trying to block the noise out. He avoided looking anywhere except his own feet. He must have been somewhere off the _earth _to think he could stand it here. He grimaced, waiting for this pitiful excuse formusic to end. It took some time.

And when it finally _did _end, something else started. Erik looked up momentarily. There was another woman, of course, getting awed and greedy glances from every man in the room, hanging off a swing and singing. Something to do with diamonds.

Erik payed little attention, watching the door. It was still blocked by millions of men. He'd never been patient.

Finally, he nearly lost it altogether and advanced to the human shields, ready to break any bones that tried to stop him, when someone screamed.

He whipped around and watched the diamond woman with the long red hair fall off her swing. He jolted instinctively, as he would've if it had been Christine. But another dancer, a dark-skinned man, caught her and took her silently across the floor. Once they were gone, a momentary silence was held over the room. By the time the fat man in the top hat disappeared too, everyone was talking and singing loudly again. Erik, once again shunted away from the exit, knew what Hell was really like.

--

It took what felt like forever before he got out. The men had dispersed all over the room, losing their minds with whatever woman that was groping them. Sickened by everything to do with the Moulin Rouge, he finally made it out into the cold night air.

Running a hand through his hair, he realised how strange he must've looked on the way there – here, in the street, people were giving him glances because of his mask.

He couldn't care less. Trying to observe the place so that he might never get mixed up into coming here again, he blinked as he saw the large elephant-shaped shelter. He watched it for a while, partially amazed someone had made a building like that. It was lit up and there were voices coming from it. He wondered who could be inside of it until he heard someone screaming over ecstatically 'YES!'

He rolled his eyes and began to walk away. Then that note rang out over the sky that made him stop short.

'_My gift is my song!'_

Erik felt himself freeze completely as he heard that. He didn't even dare to breathe as he waited for more.

'_And this one's for you.'_

He couldn't believe it. It was obviously a man's voice and there was something about it that made him have to hear more. It was strong, captivating, drawing him in to hear more. He realised he had stopped breathing and hastily sucked in a breath.

Without further ado, he turned to the elephant, running towards it and looking up, expecting to see the mystery singer.

'_And you can tell everybody_

_That this is your song_

_It might be quite simple but_

_Now that it's done_

_Hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind_

_That I put down in words_

_How wonderful life is now you're in the world...'_

The words rang out clear through the starry night of Paris. Erik expected that the entire town could hear this man and took it as a blessing that he could. Erik was attracted to the voice. Even the moon looked like it was smiling.

Erik saw a silhouette walk out onto the elephant's head, but he couldn't get a clearer view. Barely realising what he was doing, he began to climb up the elephant, trying to get a better view of the singer.

'_Sat on the roof_

_And I kicked off the moss  
Well some of the verses well  
They got me quite cross.'  
_ Erik pulled himself into a small, dark gap, concealed in the shadows. He was staring at the man's back right now and continued staring when the man turned around and smiled beatifically at someone who was inside the elephant, someone who was now as enraptured as Erik was.

'_But the sun's been kind  
While I wrote this song_.

_It's for people like you that  
Keep it turned on...'_

The man walked inside the elephant. Erik pressed himself closer to the wall, trying to listen. It couldn't be over. It was unfair that something that amazing should have ended so quickly. He froze, desperately waiting for that voice.

'_So excuse me for forgetting  
But these things I do  
You see I've forgotten  
If they're green or they're blue!  
Anyway the thing is well I really mean  
Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen!'_

'_And you can tell everybody  
This is your song  
It may be quite simple  
But now that it's done  
I hope you don't mind  
I hope you don't mind that I put down in words  
How wonderful life is now you're in the world!'_

The last note seemed to ring for hours in Erik's mind. He could barely breathe – he wondered if the person this man was singing too knew how lucky they were. Finally he realised there wasn't going to be anymore and navigated a way down the elephant.

--

Christian wished he could disappear as the Mr Firmin wrapped an arm around his shoulder, smiling. He felt incredibly nervous with all these people staring at him. He could feel them judging him: _this, _our new_ play-writer?_ He didn't look particularly nice today, he knew that. But Satine – he jolted as he thought about her – had given him reasons to not look nice. Instead, he tried to smile at them all and the girls on the stage – the very young ones – smiled back, waving politely.

A woman covered in glitter gave him an apprehensive look and waggled her fingers at him in a kind of _don't waste my time _way.

'Have you written any plays, sir?' asked a pretty blond chorus girl, who reminded him oddly of a fairy.

Mr Andre laughed. 'Aahh, Miss Giry, I'm sure the man doesn't want to –'

'One,' Christian said, giving another attempt at a smile to the young girl.

Satine had left him a wreck. He'd been unable to do anything but sit in the corner of his room for a year, until he had finally written their story – that was his play. He had come to the Opera Populaire to ask for a job and, after hearing the play involved the Moulin Rouge, the managers had asked him to come with them.

Christian had quite honestly thought he had lost the job after that; he expected to be chucked out the back door in a painful manner, or something else unpleasant. He sighed then had followed them.

Suddenly, he had been in the _theatre_, watching all the rehearsals for the next performance. He'd been enjoying every moment of it, until Mr Firmin had clapped his hands and ordered everyone know who he was. He wished he could have been introduced in a different way.

The Giry girl nodded at him, smiling.

'We'll be moving onto that play after the next three performances,' Andre said after a moment. 'I'm sure by then you'll have been introduced to everyone, such as Madame de Chagny – or, as everyone knows her, Christine Daae.' He gestured to a beautiful woman standing on the side of the stage. She blushed prettily and the writer took in her appearance – white dress, dark eyes, dark hair and a look of innocence about her. So different from Satine, and yet he could see this young woman playing the role of his lady love.

'Please,' said Christine, 'I doubt the man even knows me.'

'I'm very sorry,' he said, nodding. 'I don't really get out much.'

'_Anyone _can see _that_,' said an accented voice of a woman, somewhere in the crowd. The young man ignored it. 'But it is a pleasure to meet you,' he said, smiling at Christine Daae (or was it de Chagny?).

Christine continued to blush and smiled back at the writer. He was fairly handsome – she only wished he'd shave.

She continued to smile even after the writer had moved back through the crowd and everyone had resumed their places and began practicing again. She glided to the backstage and wondered what Raoul was doing at the moment.

--

Christian was taking a tour of the opera house – only, it was a self-tour, seeing as how the managers were busy and he was just plain curious.

He was happy that for once he was not thinking about Satine – it gave him great pain to. He would be reminded of all their short time together – too short.

He felt the tears well up in his eyes and shook his head, breathing hard. He forced his eyes shut, forced himself not to cry; for a second he thought he would, but then he gained some control over it.

Then he realised he was lost.

He whipped around, looking over the vast halls. He hadn't been looking where he was going. He sighed and turned, frowning, suddenly realising where he was. He was outside the door to Box Five.

Wondering if the stage could look any more beautiful from the Box view, he moved to open the door –

When he was suddenly poked in the shoulder by a broom handle.

'Ow!'

'What're ya doing, ay?!' snapped an old, ratty looking man with one eye bigger than the other, giving the effect he was always wincing. He was holding a broom and various other cleaning devices all over him. 'Can't go into Box Five, ay!'

'Er – I'm sorry. But why no –? Ow!'

'Don't bother asking, boy, get lost. Run off to your own business.'

'I work here. Why can't I go in Box –? _Ow!_'

'Want me to stop hitting you with a broom, ay?'

'_Yes_, _please_ sir,' Christian pleaded, dodging out of the broom's way as it lunged for him again. The man glared at him, sucking his teeth.

'Why can't I go in Box Five?' Christian said, eyeing the broom in case it felt the need to attack again.

'That be the Ghost's Box.'

'The ghost?'

'Yes. The man who hangs up in the rafters. He lives in the opera house.'

'Has anyone ever _seen _this ghost –?'

'Seen him?! Course we bloody seen him, how'd we know he's there? Mind you, you can hear him too. Sings. Plays music. Odd fellow.'

'Oh. Thank you,' said Christian, something tugging at his mind – a man who sat up in the roof and sang, a voice with an unseen body.

'And shave that muck off your face,' snapped the ratty man, poking Christian with a broom in the face. Christian longed to argue that the 'muck' on his face was nothing compared to the other man's long and tangled beard. But something else was dragging him into a memory.

--

_Satine_.

The curtain was closed and Satine was all that mattered. He could hear the applause, the people not realising what was happening backstage:

Satine was falling backwards. He watched her for a second; she was gasping for breath. A red petal fell on her face.

'Satine! Satine, what's the matter?' He lunged forwards, grabbing her. She continued to choke and gasp.

'Are you all right? What's the matter?!'

She couldn't answer. She didn't have the breath.

Christian's world was collapsing around him. '_Satine, what's the matter? God. Oh, God._' She was barely conscious. Blood trickled out of her mouth. She was coughing so hard.

'_Somebody get some help!_' he yelled desperately, feeling himself start to shake. _This couldn't be happening. It wasn't real. Not after they had finally reunited, could be happy for the rest of their lives_ –

'I'm sorry, Christian,' whispered Satine, her eyes sliding in and out of focus. 'I, I – I – I'm dying. I'm so sorry.' She was weak. _Come what may._

His breathing was shallow and uneven; he could feel tears springing to his eyes. He felt like choking too. He wasn't going to believe it. 'You'll be all right. You'll be all right. You'll be all right.'

'_Cold. I'm co – cold. Hold me. Hold me.' _He pressed her to him, letting the tears run freely now. This was not happening. This didn't happen. '_You're okay. I love you._'

'You've got to go on, Christian.'

He refused to. 'Can't – go on without _you_, though,' he tried, as though it would stop her dying. _She can't die, not after everything._

'You've got so much to give. Tell—tell our story, Christian.'

'_No._' _You can't do this!_

'Yes. Promise me. Promise me. Yes. Yes. That way I'll—I'll always be with you.'

_Her laboured breathing stopped. He looked at her blank eyes. The audience continued to applaud, even though time had stopped. _

_Satine was dead._

Christian was sobbing and screaming at the same time. This wasn't happening. No, no, no, no, no –

_But underneath all of it, there was something – something up above, disembodied and entrancing that made it Christian's ears._

'_Come what may...'_

_He didn't care. He pressed Satine even closer, crying hard._

--

Christian realised he was about to cry. The hallway had a few people in it now, so he quietly opened the door to Box Five and slipped inside, closing the door behind him.

He slid down it, hugging his knees, tears running down his cheeks. He needed to break down.

Then, like glass cutting through the air, a sound reached Christian's ears that made him listen.

'_Come what may..._'

It was the exact same voice from the night Satine had died. Christian stood up slowly, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He looked out, watching everyone on the stage notice nothing. He stood there, shaking, until he replied '_Come what may..._' to the singer who he could not see.

**--**

**Well, that was weird.**

**I know I got the whole **_**Moulin Rouge **_**end bit wrong, but as I fail to own the movie and YouTube was being a bitch, I had to read the script.**

**Hope you liked. **


	2. Chapter 2

7

**Chapter Two**

'Is there something that lives in the roof?' he asked Christine the next day, as soon as the managers had stopped questioning him. Christine was currently backstage; the scene happening at the moment, an incredibly complex dance the writer was more than happy to watch, she was not involved in.

Christine looked at him in surprise then frowned. He felt his enthusiasm stop. 'Rats, I believe,' she said, shaking her head.

Christian's sureness that she would've known came to a complete end. Still, his mouth wanted to keep asking. 'No, no – something that sings.'

'Something that _sings_?' Christine asked, looking even more confused. He was about to shake his head and tell her to forget it; he didn't need to be known as the crazy writer. Then realisation flew onto her face and a glimmer of hope sparked in his chest. 'Oh, you mean the Ghost.'

The spark died and he stared at her. The Ghost. So everyone believed it was a ghost.

'The Ghost?' asked Christian, now the confused one.

Ever since he had heard that voice yesterday in Box Five, he had decided other people than the ratty man must know what it might be, so he had decided to question Christine.

He would've been quicker if the managers, Firmin and Andre, had not found him and shown him off to more people. Not that they knew his name. No one really knew his name, save a few people. Even he was starting to refer to himself as 'the writer'.

The only thing he found slightly well about this was that he had shaved.

When the managers had finally let him go, he had run to the stage, to find Christine behind the curtain with a man who the writer (there it was again) took to be the Vicomte de Chagny. He had looked around, waiting patiently until their conversation ended with a quick kiss, then the man left. Christian had jumped in as fast as he could, needing to hear if anyone else had heard that voice.

That voice. It had been at Spectacular, Spectacular, high above him as Satine –

It had been there. But why? The ghost had a sudden interest in the play?

'Yes,' Christine was saying, smiling pleasantly at him. 'The Ghost. Have you not heard of the Phantom of the Opera?'

'I don't believe so,' he said, smiling apologetically and yet somehow innocently, at her. Inwardly, he was so curious it was hard not to just look it.

'You've never heard of the Phantom of the Opera?' Christine looked quite amazed. Also, she was incredibly annoyed she could not boast about her wild escape from the lair of her Angel of Music.

Not that that really mattered anymore. Now, they were... not friends. Accomplices.

She opened her mouth, ready to explain when suddenly there was a scream.

Christine whirled on the spot, expecting to see some explosion of damage, or someone hanging by their neck – _what angered Erik now?! _– But instead saw Carlotta wailing at a set-mover for getting in her way. She was waving her hands angrily at him, and snapping at him very fast and incoherently.

She saw Madame Giry giving the accented woman a dirty look, then turning to instruct the girls behind her never to get in Carlotta's way and spare them all a lecture.

Christian, who saw this too, grinned.

The instructing-woman walked up to Christian and shook his hand. 'We have not been properly introduced. I am Madame Giry.'

'Pleasure to meet you, Madame Giry. I'm Christian – the writer.' He smiled at her and she smiled back. Christine looked back at the stage, bored.

'I hear from my daughter you have written the opera house a play?' Madame Giry said, taking her hand back.

Christian realised the fairy girl he had seen yesterday was Madame Giry's daughter. 'Oh – oh, yes, I have,' he said, fumbling with his shirt.

The woman smiled. 'May I ask what it is about?'

'It's about...' He sighed and remembered the script he had given the managers to look over. 'It's about truth. Beauty. Freedom.'

'Love?' asked Christine, glancing over.

He at once became more serious as he looked at her. 'Yes, of course. Above all things, love.'

Christine smiled but he had no idea why. He looked back at Madame Giry, who, for some reason, was glancing at the roof as though she were watching something.

'Madame Giry?'

'Yes, it sounds wonderful. I trust there is music in this play?'

'Of course, Madame,' Christian said, enthusiastic at once. 'This _is _an opera house.'

'And you come from the Moulin Rouge?' questioned Madame Giry.

He nodded. Madame Giry glanced back up at the roof again. 'Would you care to demonstrate?'

Christian stopped. 'Demonstrate?' he repeated, looking at the stage – some, such as Carlotta, were still practicing, but others had looked over at the word demonstrate.

'Would you please?' said the young Giry girl, smiling at him.

'Perhaps Christine – she's much better at singing than I am –' He didn't want to sing in front of these people.

'If you can carry a tune, go,' said Madame Giry stonily.

He swallowed and looked at the cast – they were staring back at him, some interested, others apprehensive.

'Please, Madame,' said the writer nervously. 'I would rather not.'

'Madame de Chagny will need to hear it,' pressed Madame Giry. She glanced back up at the catwalk – the white mask was there, glaring down at Christian. She knew it had something to do with Christine. She had heard Erik once talk about the writer – he had somehow heard the young man sing. She had never seen him so enthusiastic about someone's voice other than Christine's. Perhaps it could calm him.

She looked at the shy boy and gave him a smile. 'Please, Monsieur.'

Christian took a deep breath, looked at every face watching him, and finally at Christine, who was smiling expectantly at him, waiting to hear her notes.

'_Never knew I could feel like this  
Like I've never seen the sky before  
Want to vanish inside your kiss  
Every day I love you more and more  
Listen to my heart, can you hear it sing?  
Telling me to give you everything  
Seasons may change, winter to spring  
But I love you until the end of time  
'Come what may  
Come what may.  
I will love you until my dying day.'_

He finished and looked bashfully at his feet. If only it had gone quicker. He was reminded of the voice in the roof.

And then the cast began to clap and cheer.

Christian's head shot up at the sudden noise, dazzled by the sudden relief people had liked his song. He saw a few people, namely Carlotta, giving him sour looks, but he barely noticed them – even Madame Giry smiled proudly and clapped her hands. Christine was smiling fondly at him and he looked away. He didn't need to think about anything at this moment.

--

Sure enough, when Madame Giry looked back up into the darkness, there was no white mask. She felt relieved then suddenly unsure – she didn't know whether Erik had left because he was calm or angry. She made note to visit him later.

But before she left, another thought occurred to her mind; was he just hiding?

--

As soon as the relief wore off, he asked Christine about the Ghost once again.

'This ghost,' he began and he noticed people were beginning to get ready for the performance – relief had taken too long to wear off. Damn it.

Christine looked at him. 'Yes?'

'This ghost,' he said again, 'does he...?'

'Does he what?'

'Well, what _does _he do?' the writer asked; he had wondered afterwards why he asked – Christine surely didn't know about things like that.

But it seemed she did.

'Oh. He...' Christine thought about Erik – she enjoyed being in Christian's company, but she had to meet Raoul at the door to the opera house in ten minutes. He was to wish her good luck. 'He's a composer – that's probably where you heard the singing from. He's a genius with music.'

'Does he enjoy the shows?'

'Oh, I think he does. He always comes to watch them. Like I said, he's just a genius with music – he only really likes _the best_ kinds though,' she added, swelling with pride at the thought of how Erik loved her voice.

She thought she saw Christian give her a confused smile, but she had no time to explain. 'I have to go see Raoul,' she told him and kissed him on the cheek, running off the stage as if everything were quite all right.

Christian, however, was frozen. How had she been _that okay _with kissing him? He almost felt violated. He rubbed his cheek, unsure of what he thought about it.

There was a noise above him – it was very quiet, and he wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't very nearly stopped breathing.

It had sounded as if something had been knocked over – by accident – and whoever had knocked it over had slipped away, not supposed to be there.

He looked up and thought he saw something white. However, when he looked harder, he saw nothing. Frowning, he wiped his cheek hard, wishing to get any trace of Christine off of him. He didn't know why – he just did.

'_He only really likes _the best _kinds though._'

He only really liked the best kinds? The ghost had come to Spectacular, Spectacular – did that mean anything? Christian wondered more about the fact this ghost had bothered to _come _to Spectacular, Spectacular, rather than think it was a brilliant piece if the ghost liked it. Did it mean anything?

Of course not. Whatever was calling himself a ghost was a man – if he believed himself to _indeed _be a ghost then he was mad.

Still, even if he was mad, if he was the one Christian had heard singing, then God must have given that man a gift. If that was only him singing three words then what could this phantom be capable of? A composer. Christian felt slightly proud that this man had bothered to listen to anything Christian had done.

Feeling his cheek was finally rid of Christine's kiss, the writer walked backstage and waited there, as the doors opened and the crowd began filing in, as the Boxes began filling up, as the excited chatter filled the room and as Carlotta complained about her wig just before going on stage to sing the opening number.

--

Erik had stared down at Madame Giry, who was talking to the writer – Christian. She was saying something about the new play, and glancing up at him too often. She was up to something.

He glared at Christian – the man thought he could interact with Christine so freely. When she kissed him on the cheek, he felt a surge of jealousy; just because he let Raoul run off with her didn't mean he didn't love her.

Yet there was something about Christine that a part of his mind knew – something the rest of his mind didn't want to hear, and therefore shut it out. But it was still trying to talk.

He had continued to glare down at the writer and Madame Giry's words, loud enough so that he could hear them, said, 'Please, Monsieur.'

Erik had grimaced. _Please what? What's she up to?_

The writer had looked nervously at all of them. Christine had smiled at him and Erik gripped the rope he was holding a little tighter.

Christian had begun something, fairly quietly, so that Erik could barely hear. When he realised what is was, he relaxed completely, momentarily forgetting everything except the song. He had to admit, the writer could sing. He found it interesting that slowly Christian had seemed more confident, and his voice had become stronger.

'_I will love you until my dying day.'_

The silence hung in the air for a few moments – then the cast had burst into applause.

Erik threw himself backwards, hidden from Madame Giry's eyes. Hopefully, she'd think he'd left. He wasn't sure right now if he was still angry; not being sure was irritating.

He had gritted his teeth and looked down again – not at Christine, who was too busy admiring the song, but the writer himself. Christian looked fairly relieved. Erik watched, covered in shadows, until the writer's eyes had finally gotten back the pained look.

Now he sat in Box Five, watching the toad of a woman perform her God-awful vocal skills.

--

Christian stood backstage, waiting for Carlotta's number to end. God, she was terrible – everything about her; her voice and her personality.

He heard footsteps approaching him from behind and he whipped around – instead of the tall dark figure he had expected, it was just Christine.

'Oh,' he said. 'Hello.'

'I'm going on in a minute,' Christine said expectantly.

'Well. Good luck.' He smiled at her. She laughed. 'Thank you. You really are so kind.'

'I can't say I'm sorry when her song ends.' He nodded towards Carlotta. Christine laughed again. She breathed in suddenly and put on a curious look, then walked out onto the stage. He heard the intake of breath from the audience – they loved her.

Satine had always wanted to be an actress.

He remembered something quite suddenly. The ghost – the half-madman, half amazing composer – would be in Box Five right now. Seeing as how Christian was doing nothing at the moment, and would be doing nothing over the next few hours, he wondered if he could possibly meet this ghost in person and ask him what he'd been doing singing his song.

He ran swiftly to where he remembered Box Five had been.

--

Erik, who, strangely enough, hadn't been paying attention to Christine's singing or in fact _anything _at the time was startled out of his musings when the door to Box Five rattled.

He snapped to his feet, flaring with anger; who would dare try and enter his box? Someone cursed outside but didn't appear to be moving. Erik growled and pressed his weight against the door.

'Is anyone in there?' asked a familiar voice on the other side of the door. Erik was paralysed momentarily. He remained silent.

'Is anybody in there, hello?' he heard the writer ask. How _dare _he? How dare he try and come into –

'Hello?'

Erik didn't answer. He waited; very near to ripping open the door and attacking the young man. Finally, he heard Christian say something under his breath and footsteps faded away.

He was half stunned – the man must've been delusional to walk up to the box and simply tap on the door, trying to get in.

_Maybe he's not afraid of you._

Without realising it, Erik scowled. Everyone was afraid of him – even Madame Giry, at some points, was afraid of him. Not mostly because he had killed people – just because of his deformity. That was the main reason. He was a monster.

He realised he'd been gripping his left arm so hard he could barely feel anything from the wrist down. He let go, thinking hard.

The writer wasn't afraid of him? Was that refreshing or annoying?

**--**

**EEP!!! Next chapter! **


	3. Chapter 3

9

**Okay, next one up. Please review and hope you like it.**

**Chapter Three**

Over the next few days, he still hadn't decided which it was. All that he knew was that there was something about the way the writer wasn't afraid of him that spurred some kind of – activity to him.

For reasons even Erik didn't know, the day after Christian had rattled on the door of Box Five, he found himself watching the Opera Populaire's doors until the young man – who had finally shaved – walked through. Erik had barely known he was doing it – he knew Christine's schedule after all and he had nothing else to do with his time except listen to Carlotta's terrible attempts at her part.

He watched as the writer turned a circle with a slight wary expression on his face, as if looking out for the managers perhaps. But as soon as he realised the coast was clear, his expression startled the ghost.

The young man was smiling – not just that but he looked genuinely happy. The lost pained look in his eyes had died down until it had almost fully disappeared.

Erik stared at him in wonder – how could _anything _have changed this man from the shabby looking corpse to a similar Christian to the one Erik had seen in Spectacular, Spectacular?

Yes, he had been hiding in the roof, and therefore had not seen much but a dwarf running past him, yelling out some barely incoherent sentence, but he still suspected this must've been close to what the writer looked like.

He was fairly amazed. He looked so – _happy_. Like the woman he loved hadn't died.

He watched as Christian walked quietly up the staircase and disappeared. Barely without thinking, Erik turned and sprinted down one of his passageways.

--

He'd made it; he was standing high above the stage, watching for Christian to appear. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the wood – surely walking didn't take this long. Where was he?

He glanced down at the stage and saw Christine singing her soprano, raising her arms high and smiling widely at the empty room. Wondering whether the writer was here yet, he turned and –

And caught himself quite suddenly. Christine was his amazing pupil – he'd turned away from her like that. Without a second thought, he turned back and watched her perform for the next few minutes. Though it was good – _very _good – he couldn't help but wonder every couple of moments whether this was long enough to look at her.

After what seemed like a very long amount of time, surely enough so that the writer would be here, he turned away from Christine and searched the floor in vain.

What the hell was _taking _so long?

Erik was not a patient man; that and he could get incredibly angry incredibly quickly. Why was the writer so _happy_? He was so interested it was irritating.

He was just about to find some reason to let something fall onto the chorus girls when he heard a loud breaking noise – it sounded like someone had jumped back suddenly, tripped over something and landed hard on the floor; he looked in the direction of –

Box Five. He felt his grip tighten on the railing.

'Hold on, hold on!' Andre's voice sailed through, 'now, what was _that_?'

'It's the opera ghost!' a chorus girl shrieked, losing her head completely.

'Ah, no, actually,' a British voice called down, sounding very awkward. 'Just me, sorry.'

'Monsieur Christian?' asked Meg Giry; Erik didn't need to hear more. He nearly fell off the catwalk trying to get a good look at whether the writer was still in Box Five. He pulled himself back onto solid ground then impatiently stayed there – he could not yell out 'Do you mind telling me what the hell you just destroyed?!'

'Um, nothing particularly bad happened,' he heard the writer say, as if he could read the ghost's mind. 'Um.'

'Are you in Box Five?' called out Firmin's voice from the darkness beyond the stage.

'Um, no – I'm –'

'_You're in Box Five_?!' Firmin, Andre and Erik yelled at the same time.

Everyone on stage jumped – they could've sworn they'd heard the strong voice of the Phantom.

'Um, yes,' the writer called out after a pause – Erik hoped the man had heard him too. He also hoped he was the reason the levels of awkwardness had increased in the young man's voice. 'I – was in the box and I was watching the performance and –'

'Which box? Box _Five,_ you mean?' yelled Andre.

'Erm, yes.'

'Oh, God,' moaned Andre and Erik felt a surge of triumph for some reason; he loved tearing the managers apart. 'Don't you _know _that's the box that belongs to –?'

'Is anything broken?' Firmin's voice was sharp.

'Er... no. No, nothing's broken,' Christian's voice rang out, sounding braver and Erik smirked.

'Well, come down and tell us what happened then,' the managers said in unison.

Erik drummed his fingers again, gritting his teeth – this really did take too long.

After what felt like a year but was really only six or seven minutes, in which the whole opera house held its breath, footsteps were heard and Christian came into view as he climbed onto the stage, ready to explain all that had happened.

Erik leaned over the railing, all the questions bursting everywhere.

'Tell us what happened –'

'Why were you in Box Five –?'

'_What _crashed –?'

'Writer, are you _okay –_?'

'Monsieur Christian,' Madame Giry said calmly yet loudly and Erik watched her tense face, 'do you mind telling us what you were doing in Box Five?'

'Yes what where you doing in Box Five –?' hissed Andre but Firmin clamped a hand over the other man's mouth, nodding at the writer to continue.

Christian glanced around at everyone, standing up straighter. Though he did not realise it, Erik was dangerously leaning over the railing, trying to be as close as possible. He wanted to hear whatever poor excuse came out of this man's mouth.

'I was looking for the Ghost,' said Christian firmly.

A tidal wave of surprise flew over Erik – the gasp from everyone in the room was loud enough to cover the scrambling and the thud high above their heads.

'The _Ghost_,' screamed Carlotta, glittering fingernails in front of her eyes in dramatic disbelief. She wondered if anyone was watching.

'Yes,' said Christian, looking firmly at his feet.

Erik, who was currently staring up at the ceiling, let one hand fly up and grasp the railing, pulling himself to his feet and staring down at the writer – he noticed Christine was acting just as dramatic as Carlotta. He felt a stab of annoyance and easily decided it was aimed at Carlotta.

'You went looking for him?' Madame Giry's tone was stern.

'Yes,' Erik heard the writer say, still firmly staring at his feet. He finally looked up at everyone. He was really sick of being the centre of attention. 'Everyone keeps telling me he's a composer – or something, I'm not sure, I –'

'Monsieur, he does not mix well with other people,' Madame Giry cut in and everyone else nodded their heads. Erik felt like hitting all of them and he scowled down at them. 'Now tell us,' Madame Giry continued, 'what was the crash?'

'I was watching the performance –'

'Was I-a good?' snapped Carlotta.

'Oh, yes,' Christian said, smiling easily at her; the phantom wondered how he did that. 'Anyway, I was watching it – and I thought I saw something white moving up in the roof –'

Erik lunged out of the way to avoid the millions of heads now craning up towards the roof. He waited for a few minutes, almost ready to strangle someone for cutting off the writer's story for so long.

'Erm.' Christian had obviously noticed the sudden interest. 'And I just jumped back, tripped over something and hit the floor.'

Erik grinned to himself; hadn't he thought that was the explanation?

Still, he was surprised to hear the writer had come _looking _for him: now Erik knew Christian wasn't afraid of him. Either that or he didn't know what he was getting himself into.

The ghost glanced over at the innocent, awkward writer and smirked.

--

Christian looked up as a young man sat down next to him – he'd been sitting in the seats, close to the stage, barely watching the performance, but staring up at the roof – he'd _seen _something.

Something small and white. Not Ghost size, but perhaps, up close, maybe half of someone's face?

He jumped when the man next to him cleared his throat. Christian glanced over at the other – the first thing he noticed was the long, sun-blond hair. He smiled at the man, who smiled back – though a little forcibly.

'Evening,' said the man.

'Hi,' said Christian, extending his hand. 'I'm Christian.'

'The writer, yes,' said the other, shaking his hand and grinning. 'Raoul de Chagny.'

'Patron of the opera house?'

'That would be me.'

'Christine's husband?' As soon as he said it, he knew it was the wrong thing to say – Raoul, face still smiling, laughed perhaps a fraction too late. 'Right again.'

The writer wondered what he could've said to make the Vicomte's eyes glare like that.

'Erm –'

'I heard you had a bit of a fall in Box Five a few days ago.'

'Oh. Yes. I was watching the performance.' He wasn't sure whether to add if he thought Christine was good. He glanced back up at the roof.

Something had been following him the last few days. Perhaps not following, but he could definitely feel a presence – the only time being when he left the opera house. He wasn't sure who – or what – it was, but he'd often glance over at something that might have moved a second too late out of sight. It was becoming more and more frequent – even when he had been alone in the storage room, looking over his play – his play about Satine.

Even when he'd been going over the songs, singing bits of them out loud – then he had felt sure someone was around.

And _even _one time, he'd woken up and thought he saw something move out of the room. _That _had been slightly terrifying as he'd just woken up.

Was it the Ghost?

Raoul was still saying something. Christian forced himself to pay attention, looking as interested as he could, but the Vicomte had finished his sentence and didn't rather expect the writer to answer.

They sat in silence for a moment, Christian glancing up at the roof every now and then.

'What do you think of Christine?' Raoul asked suddenly.

'Erm, she's nice,' said the writer, barely thinking.

Raoul glanced at him. 'Monsieur –'

Christian looked back at the Vicomte.

'If I find you flirting with her again –'

'_Flirting? _I'm sorry, sir, you have the wrong man – I don't –!' Since when had he _ever _flirted with Christine?! She'd kissed him!

'Then I will break off both your arms and make you carry them home in your teeth,' finished Raoul, looking as calm as though they were talking about the orchestra.

'But –' Was the patron _that _insecure? He wouldn't _dare _try adultery.

_What about Satine?_

No, she didn't love anyone else. She had loved Christian.

He tried again, 'Vicomte, I didn't –'

'Just stay away from her,' Raoul interrupted, smiling coldly at the writer, then standing up and shifting out of the row of seats, his footsteps fading away into the darkness.

Stay away from Christine? That would be easy.

He looked up at the stage and saw Christine gliding and singing. She smiled at him and he felt his stomach drop; would she stay away from him?

--

That night was the last performance.

Christine had been talking non-stop to the writer as the theatre filled up, bragging about how she had the most parts, the most lines, the most songs – the writer had looked barely interested, as if his mind were somewhere else, but she just needed to say it out loud.

The writer had been watching for two men – either the ghost or Raoul de Chagny – the one he saw was definitely the worst. Before he knew it, the Vicomte was walking towards them; Christian swallowed. He'd stayed away from Christine – but if he walked away from her when she walked straight up to him and greeted him, it would be too obvious he was avoiding her.

Raoul gave Christine a charming smile. She gave him a loving look and hugged him; the smile vanished and Raoul glared at Christian, who shook his head and tried somehow to tell Raoul that nothing had happened and that this wasn't his fault.

The universe was against him though – it was not the first time. Christine turned around, still obviously happy from Raoul's hug and gave one to the writer too.

Christian needed to die right now. He stared firmly at the floor, not hugging her back – she didn't even notice.

As soon as she let go, getting ready to talk about how she was on stage in two minutes, Christian turned and left quickly; he didn't want to be alone with the patron after Christine had hugged him. Of course, a hug usually means nothing – but the writer guessed Raoul's nerves were on edge.

The performance went stunningly, everyone completely amazing. Christian barely noticed – he had, in fact, run back to the door of Box Five.

He was sure the Ghost knew he had been looking for him. It was impossible for anyone not to hear he had been in Box Five a few days ago.

He inhaled and burst through the door – he stopped suddenly. The door was _unlocked_.

He looked around the box but absolutely no one was there. He swore and his eye caught something on the seat.

It was a note.

He picked it up and looked at it, frowning.

_Decided not to come tonight – better luck next time._

Christian threw the note on the floor, annoyed. Damn that ghost and whatever god created sarcasm.

--

After the performance, Christian realised he had not wanted to go anywhere near the entrance; Raoul was there, thanking everyone for coming. Or perhaps the patron was just waiting for him.

Christian pretended he'd left something backstage and forced his way back through the crowds of people exiting.

The stage completely empty was quite amazing. Christian almost felt overwhelmed as he looked up and saw complete darkness hanging above him and –

A flash of something white moving away.

Christian felt suddenly very excited – the ghost was here.

He grinned but looked down very quickly, assuming a confused expression. He walked around the back of the stage, pretending to look for something. He waited patiently.

But it still seemed to take forever. Perhaps the Ghost had decided to leave. Christian sighed. Yes, he must have. Surely Christian wasn't lucky enough.

He gave the entire stage – above it too – one last look. No one was there. He turned to leave, just about to walk out from behind the curtain –

'_My gift is my song..._'

Christian stopped – for a second he thought it was Satine. No one else knew that song.

He stood there, paralysed, waiting for more. Everything seemed to jumble in his mind for a moment – how this couldn't be Satine, she was dead, and the sound was different; for one thing, it was a man, and for the second, Satine's voice, though excellent, could _not _practically fill up a room with so much strength.

But whoever was singing seemed to have stopped. Christian looked around, half amazed and angry that the singer had actually stopped singing. He looked straight up, nearly falling over with the effort of craning his neck so high.

'Hello?' he called out and waited.

He was met with silence. But somehow, Christian could tell, it was amused silence.

The writer started to grin, not noticing the footsteps. 'Going to keep hiding?' he asked, but quietly.

'Monsieur,' said a voice behind him. Christian turned to the darkness and was immediately punched across the face.

He stumbled back onto the stage, hitting the floor, his face burning, too confused and surprised – the opera ghost? He squinted and hurriedly tried to get to his feet.

'Vicomte de Chagny –'

This was responded with by another punch – Christian fell over again, blood collecting in his mouth. He spat it out and held up his hands. He tried again, 'Vicomte de Chagny, I don't –'

'I told you to stay away from Christine.'

Christian had to fight not to yell out 'She came near me!' He knew he was incredibly close to getting the life throttled out of him. Instead he said calmly, climbing to his feet, 'I did nothing –'

'You did nothing,' Raoul repeated dubiously and Christian was pushed back to the ground again. 'I see.'

The writer was not a fighting man. He struggled to stand again and scarcely dodged Raoul's next punch – he was incredibly off balanced as he ran off behind stage again, tripping over quite easily to his knees, then smashing straight into the floor. His face hurt like hell. He crawled behind some kind of... big, cube-like object used for the sets.

He could hear Raoul running after him – he was in an easy place – _he was so disorientated he could barely think_ – brilliant, he'd be dead by morning, that seemed like a completely normal sentence.

Was Raoul _that _insecure?

The only thing really awake was his eyes – they were all seeing but not really sending the messages to his brain. He saw Raoul stride into view, look around and lock eyes with him. Christian grabbed onto the cube-like object, pulling himself to his feet – everything felt a little foggy, and his face hurt, but besides that he felt okay. He could stand up and probably walk without feeling dizzy.

No, wait – he was wrong. The set object was supporting him.

Raoul was getting closer. Christian found no point in running; he stood up a little straighter and waited for the Vicomte.

But the Vicomte never came. Something lunged out of the darkness and was suddenly between Raoul and Christian – the writer blinked, _it was a man _– and he was facing the patron.

Raoul stopped too close and Christian saw some kind of movement that didn't properly register with his brain – but suddenly Raoul was lying on the floor, half conscious and the writer suddenly felt like falling over. He saw the other man turn to face him and he slumped forwards.

The man caught his shoulder and righted him. Christian saw a flash of white where the man's face should be. He tried to say something but instead he just looked at Raoul –

_The Vicomte was going to black out. The hit from Erik had been enough to send him into unconsciousness. But all he could see was the darkness and a faint outline that looked like Christian's face..._

Christian watched as Raoul's eyes rolled back into his head and waited to see if he would stop breathing –_ he didn't _– good. He looked down at his feet, feeling the ghost move.

Then there wasn't ground underneath them anymore and they fell through some kind of... _hole_.

Christian yelled and slipped out of the man's grasp, hitting the ground fairly off-balance and stumbling sideways onto the other man, whom he noted, with jealousy, had managed to land completely upright. He heard whatever had opened above them close.

Still...

The writer had just been attacked by the patron, saved by this masked man, and was now somewhere underground.

This was too odd. He sunk into unconsciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

6

**Chapter Four**

The passageways took too long to get through – footsteps hurried along them. The ghost was now supporting the writer's full weight.

Erik was surprised to find Christian much lighter than he expected. He was also surprised to find the man had fainted so easily. If the writer had been fully awake and not taking up most of Erik's concern right now, he would have smirked.

He was so caught up in wondering how anyone could lose consciousness that easily that he nearly walked into the glass that, from the outside, looked like a mirror. He leaned the writer against the wall momentarily, opened the glass like a sliding door and grabbed Christian just before he fell over again.

He stopped suddenly. The writer's expression looked different. Eyes travelling over the split temple Raoul had caused, Erik narrowed his eyes; minutes ago, Christian had been unconscious. Now, it looked like he was in fact _pretending _to be asleep.

Erik rolled his eyes, wishing Christian hadn't just been beaten up by the Vicomte – then he could at _least _throw him in the lake.

Instead he let go of Christian and walked through the mirror, smirking as he heard a thud and a small 'ow'.

--

Christian pulled himself to his feet – yes, he had been pretending for the last four minutes, but it had seemed a little awkward to say, 'Could you put me down?'

He climbed through the mirror, watching the other man's back as he threw off his jacket, leaving it on the floor then ignoring Christian completely.

Christian didn't mind however – he was thinking.

'You're him, aren't you? You're the ghost.'

The other man inclined his head slightly – Christian saw the white mask covering the right side of his face.

Christian felt that meant he had the right answer. He looked around the room – there was a lake. There was a lake? They were somewhere underground.

'Um, thank you – for, um, helping me,' he said awkwardly.

There was still silence from the ghost's end. Christian looked around again and took in the organ. He glanced at the small tables with the candles – something caught his eye. Walking to investigate, he picked up what looked like a script – no, it was a score, covered in musical notes that looked amazing but that Christian couldn't really read.

'Were you the one singing?' he asked, looking over at the ghost then quickly looking back down at the score when he realised the other man had turned to face him.

The ghost smirked. Christian felt a twinge of irritation. He half-wished to say 'Are you going to smirk at me all day or actually say something?' but he felt he should be a little polite – he'd just been saved from an angry Vicomte.

Which reminded him of something –

'What did you do to Raoul –?'

'The Vicomte?' asked the ghost and Christian stopped, surprised at actually hearing the man talk.

'Erm, yes,' he said after a moment, 'is he going to be okay?'

The ghost arched an eyebrow – Christian couldn't actually see the other part of his face, which was covered by that porcelain mask, but he could just tell.

'He just tried to kill you and you're worrying about his well-being?' He didn't sound stunned or confused; he sounded like he thought Christian was an idiot.

'Well,' said the writer, shrugging. 'He wouldn't have _killed _me –' He stopped trying to put Raoul in a better light when he saw the other staring at him.

'Why do you live down here?' Christian tried, looking away and trying to find something else he could at least _pretend _to be interested in. He took a step back when the ghost suddenly stood up and walked straight up to him. Christian jerked away, wondering if this was all about to get crazy.

Erik grabbed the writer's shoulder, pulling him back and staring hard at the blood that was now bleeding perhaps a little too much. As a quick, not really cared for explanation, he said, 'You're bleeding.' He was more concerned with stopping the flow. He let go of Christian and easily ripped off a strip from his shirt, not noticing the writer's half-discomfort, half-surprise in his sudden concern.

Christian stared at the ghost, who pressed the folded-up strip fairly hard to his temple. 'Hold that,' the ghost murmured, frowning and Christian quickly did as he said. He realised he could now feel the wetness spreading down the right side of his forehead. _You're concerned about something I'm not really caring about and yet you let me fall over and crash into a wall._ He gave a half-smile but the ghost had already turned back, looking for something.

'Why are people afraid of you?' Christian asked, following the other man.

'Why _aren't _you afraid of me?'

Christian wished he could say 'Because you're not particularly intimidating' until the ghost, who had been searching through what looked like more musical scores on a table, turned around and looked down at the young man. Christian took it back – the ghost was very intimidating. After a long pause he said, 'Because you saved my life.'

'Are you sure that means anything?' the ghost asked, smirking again, turning around and walking into a room Christian hadn't realised was there.

The writer blinked and followed the ghost once more. 'What're you looking for?'

The ghost didn't answer, but merely glanced in Christian's direction, shifting through more papers – some were tied together, others useless pages for nothing.

'Could you at least –?' Christian tried –

'Tell you what you're doing here?' the ghost asked, finally finding a stack of tied papers, but papers that didn't look handwritten – he threw them to Christian, who caught them one-handed, read the first line. His mouth opened and he looked at the ghost, who was once again moving out of the room.

'This is mine!' He was angry and rooted to the spot – this was personal, the ghost wasn't supposed to read it – yes, he'd organised it as a play later, but this was the first draft, the one where he hadn't bothered to change names – where it had just been left as 'Christian' and 'Satine.'

'It's good,' the ghost's voice sounded from the room Christian had just been in – frankly, the one he was in now looked unused.

'That's doesn't – hold on, I never gave this to anyone, you _stole _it from me,' Christian snapped.

To add to his annoyance, he heard the ghost laugh quietly.

'It isn't funny,' he objected, letting go of the bloodied strip and letting it fall to the floor. 'And it's not very refreshing to hear that you can get into my room – how did you even know where my room _was_?'

'You've brought that anywhere you go over the last couple of days,' the ghost said and Christian stared at him in surprise. The ghost grinned. 'I'm surprised you didn't find it was missing earlier.'

'When did you take it?'

'Only today.'

'And you finished it?'

'I didn't have to. I know what happens.'

'_Don't_ talk about that,' Christian said, clenching the papers tightly. He realised with surprise he was blushing when he remembered the ghost had come to see the play. The ghost smirked once again and said no more.

The writer's eyes were once again attracted to the white mask. 'Why do you wear that?'

The ghost watched him for a moment, smirk disappearing and Christian knew he had said something wrong. 'Let's make a deal,' the ghost said, and Christian could hear the anger hidden in his voice, 'you don't ask about this –' he indicated his mask – 'and I won't talk about Satine.'

Christian stared back into the ghost's green eyes, determined not the break eye-contact. But the other man's gaze was never-ending.

'Can I ask one more question?'

The other man's jaw clenched but he said, 'Go ahead.'

'Do you have any other name than "Opera Ghost"? It's a little odd to try and call you that,' he tried to sound defensive.

To his surprise, the ghost blinked, as if no one had bothered to ever ask his name and he was surprised someone actually cared. Christian waited, making sure his own surprise didn't show.

'Erik,' said the ghost, shrugging.

The writer smiled. 'Nice to meet you.'

--

Madame Giry glared at Raoul. 'Where is he now?'

They were standing backstage, while people on stage and running around the rows of seats were discussing the disappearance of their new writer.

Most of them had gone with the excuse 'It was the OPERA GHOST!!!'

'I have no idea,' the Vicomte said earnestly for the eighteenth time, avoiding Madame Giry's glare.

'We found you backstage unconscious –'

'That was Erik, I told you.'

'Yes, so either Erik took Christian or you've done something with him.'

'Madame, I assure you,' Raoul said, though starting to feel guilty. The patron was in fact a nice person, as long as you stayed on his good side. 'I have nothing to do with his disappearance.'

'Well, you better have something to prove it; half of these people reckon it was either the Phantom of the Opera or _you_.' She shook her head in disgust. 'What were you doing back here, anyway?'

This was the question Raoul had held off ever since she dragged him away from the managers, to whom he'd been explaining Christian's disappearance, by the ear and taken him behind the stage, glaring at him and asking him the same question too many times.

'I was... the writer had...'

'Something about Christine?'

Raoul looked sheepish.

Madame Giry slapped him across the face. 'Unbe_lievable_,' she breathed. 'Did the writer do _anything _to her?'

'Well...'

'No, he didn't. The only real male contact Christine has had is lovers – she doesn't know how to react, so if anything, it's her fault.'

'I –'

'You tried to _attack _Christian?'

'I –'

'Coming from _you_, Vicomte. Don't you trust Christine?'

'I do, I love her – it's just... she's been... different.'

Madame Giry rolled her eyes. She had too noticed this effect in Christine, but it was not the writer's fault. 'Monsieur, the life of the leading role is finally taking effect. She's been spacey because she's thinking of her brilliance. It is sad, it happens to the best of people, but if you had not been so determined to find a different reason, you would've seen the real one within a second.' She gave him a final glare and said, 'You better hope Erik gets Christian back quickly.' Then she turned and left.

Raoul sheepishly rubbed his cheek. He'd had no real control over his actions. He'd been bored, so he started drinking the alcohol, something he was now going to stay away from for the rest of his life. He felt a wave of guilt wash over him as he remembered his actions the night before.

--

Erik watched as the writer breathed in – pause – breathed out. Christian had fallen asleep almost minutes after he'd told the writer his name. One moment, Christian had been leaning against a wall, blue eyes wide and taking in everything as Erik secretly glanced at his reactions. The next moment: out like a light.

The ghost had watched the man sleep against the wall, completely silent, expressionless, until he'd decided Christian should at _least _sleep in a bed. That had been the only reason Erik had picked him back up.

Now he sat there, wondering how long Christian slept – it had been a certain amount of hours and Erik was quite sure a new day had begun, and yet Christian was still asleep.

It was an hour ago when he'd started to get worried. Had Christian had some kind of concussion Erik might have missed?

Tapping his fingers on the floor, he watched the writer, still peacefully asleep. He wished the man would just wake up. This was becoming incredibly stressing.

What had called him in the start was when he heard Christian talking in his sleep. He'd listened to the gibberish the writer muttered about until he caught his own name: Erik. Then he'd payed attention.

Christian had mentioned his name at least three times coherently. He'd picked it up through the string of foreign language coming out of the writer's mouth. He'd been incredibly amused.

He watched as Christian jerked suddenly, eyes opening and sitting up, confused as to where he was. He saw Erik and relaxed – then tensed again.

'You've been asleep for a while, monsieur,' Erik said, sounding bored.

'Oh.' The writer looked around him again. 'How'd I get in the bed?'

'You _walked_. Isn't it amazing what feet can do?'

'No,' Christian said, ignoring the ghost's – _Erik_ – smirk. 'I don't remember –'

'I daresay you were too tired,' Erik said, tilting his head to the side. Christian looked unsure of himself, but that seemed to be the only explanation there. He nodded and Erik felt a wave of triumph.

'I'm sure the opera house is in a frenzy as to where their new writer's gone –'

'Probably not.' Christian sounded as though this mattered not to him – he was just stating the truth.

Erik blinked. 'Okay, they don't care at all, but someone's probably noticed you're gone.'

'So perhaps I should get going?'

'I'd assume it would be best.'

'Never assume,' the writer shrugged, grinning at the ghost.

Erik rolled his eyes, standing up. He didn't mind showing the writer the way back. He had to see Christine today, anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

9

**Chapter Five**

Christian walked along the passageways, alone. He'd been anxious to get out on his own and had asked the opera ghost for directions. Momentary confusion had ridden across Erik's face. Then it was back to the smirk and Christian listened how to get back up to the stage.

He looked around him – everything looked the same: cobwebbed, shadowed and grey. This was useless.

He looked around again – what had Erik – _it still came as a shock to him – he had talked to the opera ghost _– said before?

It had all become a blur in Christian's mind. He groaned, clutching his story tightly in his hands. . Now he was lost, perhaps miles underground, and there was no way to get out. He could probably call the ghost, but that would make him seem incompetent. Christian wondered what Erik thought of him at the moment; probably not much, but if he had _any _pride he was not going to yell for help.

He walked along a few more passages, feeling almost hopelessly lost until he turned a corner and walked into someone.

He yelled and jumped back; immediately embarrassed, he wondered if it was Erik.

'Monsieur,' said a stern voice and Christian felt his arm being grabbed and he was pulled painfully back along the dark hallways.

'Madame Giry?' he managed.

'What are you _doing _down here? The whole opera has been worried sick, the Vicomte included, though I doubt you care –'

'_Raoul _was worried?'

'Well, most thought it was him who had disposed of you,' Madame Giry said angrily, still pulling Christian rather painfully along.

'Oh.'

'Yes, _oh_,' she snapped. 'What are you doing down here?'

'Well – when Raoul was... Erik –'

'_Erik_?' Madame Giry stopped and looked at Christian in amazement. _Erik_ had given his name to the writer?

'Yes,' said Christian uneasily. 'Erik – he – stopped Raoul and – brought me down here.'

Madame Giry frowned. Why would Erik do that?

'Well,' she said and finally they turned into the passage that held the mirror-opening to Christine's room. She stalked up to the door, ripped it open and pulled the writer through. 'You should've come quicker.'

'I – sorry,' the writer said sheepishly.

'Good.' It was now in the light she noticed the cut on his forehead. She frowned in concern. 'What is that?'

'Oh – where Raoul – um –'

'He better apologise to you,' she growled to herself, slamming the mirror door so hard Christian thought it would shatter. Amazingly, it held some strength.

He stared at it through a moment – _Erik could get to that _– then followed Madame Giry into the hallway.

--

The writer was surprised; once again, he was the centre of attention. _Everyone _was trying to talk to him and all he was doing was standing behind stage.

'_Christian_!'

'What _happened _to your head –?'

'Where were you? We thought the Vicomte –!'

'It was the opera ghost, wasn't it?!'

Madame Giry had told Christian not to call the ghost 'Erik' to other people. He looked at all the people who were yelling and crying at him, all needing to know their own separate questions, not caring much for anyone else's.

He saw Raoul standing a little further away than the other people, arms crossed and staring hard at the ground. He wondered if the patron felt guilty for what he'd done.

'Monsieur,' cried Meg Giry, sending everyone into a hushed silence. As soon as everyone was silent, she continued, 'are you all right? We thought the opera ghost had taken you.' Her eyes travelled to the cut on Christian's head. 'Did he?' she asked.

Christian blinked. Either now he could expose Raoul or he could lie. He gave them all a confused look. 'Well, I don't really remember.'

He saw Raoul's head snap up behind the crowd and look over at him, stunned. 'I mean,' Christian continued, 'I think I was looking for something – I really can't remember. I think I fell.'

'Well, what happened after that?' he heard someone say.

'I don't know.' He became very aware of the fact the opera ghost could in fact be high above, watching. He shrugged. 'I woke up and I was back here –'

'You disappeared!' Carlotta screeched suddenly, appearing from nowhere. 'You expect us to not ask where you go?!'

'How can I tell you where I've been if I don't know myself? I don't even remember _anything_,' the writer lied, perhaps a little too easily.

The prima donna glared at him and Christine said, 'Well, this is all very exciting, isn't it?'

The writer wished she'd disappear. She was the start of this mess. He could feel the light cut on his temple throb suddenly.

'Erm, yes,' he said, shrugging. 'Nothing really to worry about.'

They all stared at him until finally someone in the orchestra shrugged and said, 'on with the play.'

Christian frowned. He was sure it was 'on with the show'.

--

When Christian finally thought he wasn't going to be badgered about where he had been all day, he slipped into the storage room – he didn't need anyone to find him.

As soon as Madame Giry had led him out of the passageways, he'd run to the small room in the opera house he was allowed to stay in if he didn't go back to his apartment at night – and hidden the script there, somewhere he was sure even Erik – _he still found it odd to say that name _– would find it.

He wondered again why people were scared of the man. Sure, he may look intimidating... Christian frowned. The man haunted an opera house. Of course someone would be scared of him.

Shrugging, he ran back out of his small room, giving the odd mirror – the one that had been placed in there before he came to the opera house – a knowing look. He tried to move quietly backstage, seeing everyone was reading the scripts for the play he'd created – but they were all a little jumpy. He walked up to Carlotta, the closest one, and asked, 'Prima Donna, do you mind telling me why everyone's so...?'

But he stopped when she whirled around, gaped at him and yelled suddenly, 'THE WRITER MAN IS BACK!!!'

Everyone looked up and Carlotta was back to her old self again. She tried to slap Christian, who ducked and took a wary step back. He was surrounded by that crowd that had asked him where he was for a long time without letting him answer.

Finally, they'd gone away, back to reading through the scripts, most of them chattering with excitement, telling the other what they already knew; 'The writer's back.'

'Yes. What's his name again?'

After a few more hours of trying to work on something but people kept walking up to him and asking what had happened, even some of the same people he noticed after a while.

Then there was Raoul.

The writer had been sitting back-stage, wondering how long these questions would go on for, when the Vicomte had surprised him. He'd jumped up, taking at least ten steps back until the patron raised a hand and said, 'Please, monsieur. I understand perfectly why you'd want to walk away –'

'Do you?' Christian asked hollowly.

'– but let me explain.' Raoul shifted uncomfortably. 'I made a mistake.'

Christian watched him warily, unsure of whether to run or not. The only reason he had defended Raoul was because... he had no idea why.

'I – pinned a problem on the wrong person,' Raoul said slowly. 'I'd been – I'd been drinking –'

'Is that supposed to make me feel better?' asked Christian, glaring at Raoul.

'No. I wanted to say thank you for keeping me out of it and that I was sorry, but it won't mean anything.'

The writer watched the Vicomte look uneasy for a few more moments before he said, 'It's okay.'

'What?'

'It's okay. Don't worry about it.'

Raoul gave him a look of complete and utter disbelief. 'But – why –?'

'Because I'm going to be here a lot longer and there's no reason to hold grudges,' said Christian, though he wished otherwise – he had some kind of dislike for the man.

Raoul brightened momentarily but hid it quickly. Christian swallowed and held out his hand. 'See you around.'

Raoul extended his hand and they shook. 'All right.'

And after that there had been the other numerous people walking up to him – _still _some the same people – asking him where he had been. He responded irritably he didn't remember.

'Are you sure –?'

'Nothing happened – you didn't leave and get in a fight –?'

'_No_, I don't know; forget about it, will you?'

Now he'd had enough – surely by tomorrow something new would have happened. He opened the storage room door quietly and closed the door with a small _click_. He stood there for a second then felt it safe enough to continue. He looked around the room and couldn't help but grin.

Everywhere was old sets or props and bits and pieces the Opera Populaire had used some time for entertainment. The writer felt like he was moving inside bits of time. He liked it in this opera house – it made him think less of Satine for some reason. He frowned. Why should he be thinking less of Satine? Surely that wasn't right. How could he, he'd written a play about her?

Shrugging, he looked at a bed that had been moved in here at one point. He felt tired. But there was no chance in hell that he was going to sleep – if _anyone _opened that door he'd be found, woken up and asked again.

He looked at all the mess and brightened when he saw something; a huge old chest. He walked over to it, flipping open the lid and grinning at the big cobwebbed emptiness. Just for a test, he made sure the lid wouldn't fall down and climbed into it. He realised he fit pretty nicely in it and stayed there for a minute. It felt somewhat calming. And dusty, for a different reason.

Would Erik try and talk to him again?

The question had snapped into his mind so suddenly he jolted, causing him to bump his head incredibly hard. Cursing, he realised that had been enough movement to cause –

The lid snapped shut tightly above him.

Oh, God.

--

Erik was furious.

What the hell had made Christian forgive that fop?! He'd just been brutally attacked by the Vicomte, who's only excuse was 'I'd been drinking.'

He'd been watching the reactions Christian caused all day – it was half annoying, half amusing at how these people were completely fine with an answer such as 'I don't know' after asking the same question at least eight times.

He growled – he'd seen Raoul when he found Christian – he may have been drinking, but if he was as drunk as he made out to be, _surely _he would've been as badly co-ordinated as Christian.

Speaking of Christian, he'd lost him.

Erik growled again – another reason to make this day worse. He'd seen Christian come this way – where could he have gone?

The ghost had no idea why he was so intent on looking for the writer; in fact, it had barely crossed his mind he _was _so intent to find the man. He'd been too busy looking for Christian to think about _why _he was looking for him.

Erik's head slowly turned to the only door around – the storage room. He smirked, anger disappearing momentarily – Christian had gone in _there_?

He opened the door fairly easily and stepped quietly in. He gave the room a quick scan and stopped.

The writer wasn't here.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had kicked over a set painted with clouds and many gardens; it made a loud _crash_ing noise as it broke rather easily.

Erik looked around for some other painted piece of wood that would lose whatever life it held in the next few minutes and heard a strange sound.

It was someone slamming their hands against a surface, their yelling muffled. Erik stopped and he realised where the noise was coming from: a large chest a little way away.

Jumping over the splintered wood and other various props, he was suddenly in front of the chest, smirking in triumph. The yelling sounded like Christian.

He ripped open the lid; he didn't understand how he could possibly be any more amused, but he was hit with a new wave of it when he saw Christian crumpled up in there, hands in front of his eyes, shielding them from the light change.

'Thank you so mu –' Christian took his hands away from his eyes and stopped; he stared up at Erik, blinked hard and looked up again, a blush steadily crawling up his neck onto his face.

Erik grinned. 'Unhappy to see me?'

Christian said nothing, just stared at him, mouth half open.

'I'll take that as a yes,' Erik said, looking serious and he closed the lid again. Christian started yelling as soon as he realised he was trapped again; Erik sat on the bed for a minute until standing up, assuming a confused expression and opening up the chest again. 'What?'

'Erm – can you get me out?'

Erik clasped onto Christian's arm, pulling him up to his feet. The writer looked awkward again and Erik couldn't help but feel proud of himself.

'Thanks,' Christian said, looking at the floor.

'You have a habit of getting yourself into trouble,' Erik smirked.

'Trouble just has a way of finding me,' the writer replied, looking up and glaring hard. Erik nearly laughed. He merely gave Christian an 'I'm sure' look and said, 'I suppose I'll see you again soon then.'

He turned and began to walk toward the door when Christian said, 'Wait.'

Erik stopped – he had truly not thought Christian would say that. He turned back to the writer, frowning.

Christian seemed to not have anything to really say though; he looked around awkwardly then said, 'Did you break that?'

Erik followed his gaze to the set. _Oh. That. _'No,' he said innocently.

Christian arched an eyebrow. Erik being innocent. He didn't know the man very well, but he knew this was wrong. 'So, how did it break?'

Erik shrugged, looking at the broken mass that once had been scenery. 'Wish I knew.' He didn't feel the slightest bit awkward about it.

Christian narrowed his eyes – _it WAS you_ – but couldn't help grinning anyway. 'Well,' he said, looking around the storage room, 'how are you?'

Erik stared at him. That was a new question to him. Usually, it was some chorus girl losing her head completely and screaming '_Why is the opera ghost DOING this?!_' or someone asking 'Where are you, you madman?!!'

Nope, 'how are you?' was completely new to him.

He shrugged again. 'How are you?'

'All right.'

'Okay.' He watched the writer, waiting for another hopefully easier question.

Christian stared back at the opera ghost. Honestly, you would've thought no one had asked him 'how are you' before. 'What do you do all day?'

Erik thought. He was not going to say 'Follow you'. He was not going to say that. Think of something else.

Christian frowned. 'Erik?'

The other man jolted at the use of his name. 'I just watch the rehearsals.'

'Is that the noise no one ever bothers to listen to?' Christian asked, eyeing the white mask. Erik noticed this and fiercely avoided his gaze. 'Yes, _everyone _hears me at the stage, because I make so much noise.' He rolled his eyes. 'You haven't even noticed anything today –' He stopped suddenly and Christian blinked, suspicious. 'Noticed what?'

'Nothing,' Erik said breezily. The writer frowned. The man really was too good at lying.

'Noticed _what_, Erik?' Christian repeated. The other man looked up and smirked.

Christian avoided the ghost's green eyes once again. They were holding that same playful look he'd seen quite often over the last day. Instead, he couldn't help but grin as he looked at the props; the thought he was in the middle of time excited him somewhat. That could be a good story. He thought about it, smiling for a moment. Then he remembered who else was in the room. 'Well, we're both here at the moment, so what now?' he asked, looking over expectantly at Erik.

Erik wished Christian hadn't said that – the ghost had been watching as the young man smiled at the various pieces of insanity around him. This man had witnessed the woman he loved die in his arms. Smiling – even if it was at the old, half destroyed set pieces – should last as long as it could.

Instead, he shrugged again. He'd been following the man the entire day but had no real plans to interact with him.

'You have split personalities,' Christian said finally. Erik blinked. 'What?'

'Well, one minute all you do is show off, the next you're more awkward than me.'

'Since when have you been awkward?'

'I locked myself in a_ chest_ a few minutes ago.'

'And since when has _that _been awkward? If there _is _in fact any awkwardness about it, it would be the fact I opened it.'

Christian opened his mouth and closed it again. 'Since when do you defend me?'

Erik stopped. This had gotten completely out of hand like _that_.

'Can you tell me why everyone's afraid of you?' he heard the writer ask. Once again, he felt amusement flood through him, thankfully.

'I thought we'd been through this,' he said, grinning.

The writer frowned. 'No, I mean really; why?'

Erik's grin turned down a notch. If Christian asked anyone, he'd probably never talk to Erik again. Not that that would be life threatening – it was just fun to talk to someone who wasn't forever thinking he was going to kill them.

He felt a tinge of guilt – _where was that coming from?_ – when he saw the writer's curious yet innocent expression.

'No idea.'

'Should I ask someone?'

Erik flinched – that response was too quick. The man was going to look for every reason to figure it out.

'Why are you so interested?' he shot back.

Christian stopped again. This wasn't going anywhere. He liked the man's company for some reason.

He shook his head, looking back at the –

They really were useless pieces of junk. He sighed; wishing that thought hadn't come as quickly.

Erik winced. He hadn't done that, had he?

'Is the cast reacting to your sudden return?' he asked, even though he knew the answer.

Thankfully, Christian gave him a small smile but said nothing. Erik felt a lighter for some reason but it died quickly when the writer said, 'I guess I should go.'

He jumped back over the now-useless junk pieces, brushing Erik's shoulder by accident and apologising, not noticing the other's expression when he'd done that.

'Stop.'

Christian froze and turned back to the opera ghost, who was looking at him with a blank expression.

'Yes?' he asked, a little nervous of whatever question the ghost might ask.

'Any new material?'

Christian relaxed and shrugged. His writing. 'Nothing brilliant –'

'Show me.'

--

Christian sat in his small room, staring at his typewriter. The page was completely empty. He couldn't think of a single thing.

He'd shown the ghost a few pages of a new idea and instead of waiting around, the man had disappeared with the notes. Christian was anxious to what his reaction might be.

He was surprised Erik had been so interested to see it. Then again, he'd also been surprised that the ghost had been the one to open up the chest, help him out and have an awkward conversation with him for a few minutes.

He blinked; of all people, Erik had found him. There had to be something going on there.

His eyes travelled to the large mirror which looked so out of place in this small room. Did it open like the one in Christine's room?

That's when he gave jolt; it _opened _in _Christine's _room! He hadn't thought about it before; did she know the ghost? He thought about it. She seemed to know a lot about the ghost, so there was a chance she knew about the mirror. And Madame Giry would have told her if she hadn't, right? He felt a little more relaxed. She did know a bit about the ghost. Maybe he should ask _her _why they were all so afraid of him. Of course, there was the whole stalking the opera thing – but he was sure there was another reason.

--

Erik re-read the pages for the seventh time. They weren't in any particular order – they were just randomly jumbled about, as if Christian hadn't been bothered to add them together. They were just paragraphs, even one-liners, of ideas that might have occurred to him. They sounded interesting but Erik was barely thinking about them, much as he tried; finally, after the entire day, he realised he'd been watching Christian. This had seemed completely normal at the time but the ghost could not get it into his head why he'd done it.

He frowned. The writer was interesting, but for the love of God, he had _Christine _to worry about. The lame excuse that it could've been the fact they have similar names came to his mind. He wished that could be the reason.

Just today when Christian had brushed against him accidentally, he had felt different – that human contact, no matter how small or useless it was.

He looked back at the pages. They sounded interesting all right, and they gave him an insight to Christian's mind.

He liked that.

But as much as he liked that, he wished he could've heard Christian talking about them instead of reading them.


	6. Chapter 6

6

**Chapter Six**

The writer was asleep.

He could see that through the mirror – Christian had managed to slip into unconsciousness again. His head was tilted slightly towards his left shoulder, and he was slumped against the wall. Every few minutes he'd murmur something – Erik wished he could hear it. He slipped open the mirror – he'd barely thought he'd ever use this one – and stepped quietly into Christian's small room. He wanted to look around but he couldn't properly turn without his eyes leaving the writer, so that was out.

He sat down in front of the open mirror, watching Christian breathe in and out. He wondered if the writer was actually dreaming at all. If so, what about?

Christian mumbled something and shifted slightly. Erik held his breath, trying to catch the words.

But they were just gibberish.

He sat there, a little disappointed. Once again, Erik had no real reason why he was doing this – but he knew he was doing it at least. It seemed pretty normal for the moment – he had nothing to do for the rest of the night and he'd seen Christine sleep at least a million times. It was different to watch the writer. Christine looked completely bored and like she was waiting until she could wake up and someone could tell her she was good again.

Erik shook his head – _he didn't think that about Christine –_

But the writer just looked so... at peace?

'Want to say anything else?' he whispered, wishing he could understand what the man was saying – even better, what he was thinking.

To his surprise, Christian smiled in his sleep, shifting some more. Erik's mouth dropped open for a moment and, without knowing it, his expression switched to a smile when Christian, still happy, muttered, 'Erik...' then resumed back to being quiet.

The opera ghost continued to watch the other man for the next few hours, even after Christian had stopped smiling.

--

When Christian woke up the next morning – at least, it must have been morning because he was waking up and he could hear people walking – he gave a strange jolt and looked around – he had had a fleeting idea that someone had been in the room with him at some point.

Must've been a dream.

He stretched, groaning at the few _pops _he heard and the fact he'd been sleeping half curled up. His eyes fell on the mirror.

Then again, maybe it wasn't a dream.

For some reason, that idea didn't scare him as much as he thought it would have. Maybe it was because he still felt exhausted.

Sighing, he looked over at the bed that had been crammed into the room and wished he'd had enough sense to crawl onto that before he slept. He stood up, groaning again as his muscles protested. He stretched again, moved his arms around, looked in the mirror and tried to make his untidy hair look slightly reasonable before walking downstairs to eat some breakfast.

--

It was interesting to watch the play.

Madame Giry smiled when she saw Christine, who was performing well as usual, interrupted from her singing by the new writer, who said, 'Sorry, Christine – you're brilliant, really, but can you just... do that again?'

Christine looked surprised. 'Am I not doing well?'

'No, you're doing great – I just, erm, didn't wake up early enough so I missed the beginning.'

Christine glowed at him and Madame Giry sighed – another reason for the young girl to fall in love with herself some more. She did love Christine like a daughter, but the girl was becoming exceedingly foolish.

But she knew the writer was lying; he'd been here the entire time and Christine hadn't noticed him. She didn't know why he felt compelled to stop her singing for a moment; perhaps he was annoyed?

She sighed and looked up at the roof. She blinked.

Erik was up there, looking positively absorbed into whatever was happening on stage. She watched him for a few more moments then followed his gaze, expecting it would be on Christine.

She frowned; it didn't meet up with Christine. She was on the other side of the stage, singing 'Come What May'.

Then she realised – Erik wasn't even looking at the stage – he was looking _off-_stage, the left side.

She quietly made it to the left side of the stage, behind the curtains and the sets. She stopped, concealed in darkness and saw the person standing a few metres in front of her was –

Christian.

She blinked then looked up at Erik. Indeed, Christian seemed to be what Erik was staring at. Madame Giry could see a speck of the white mask which covered the right side of the ghost's face incredibly clearly through the darkness, which Christian had thankfully not noticed. But, as she was looking at him from his left side, she could also see Erik's expression and was again surprised.

She checked that this _was _Christian standing in front of her. Yes, she was fairly sure.

Erik _looked _like he was smiling – but not as though he was fully there while he was. And he didn't look cruelly amused. It was more a half-smile, but not crude. She knew it had something to do with the writer.

She made note to confront both of them later.

--

Erik blinked suddenly and realised Madame Giry was standing behind the writer, giving him an odd/still-somehow-stern look. She was wondering what he was up to – again.

He was just about to return the glare when Christine suddenly stopped singing and he decided grudgingly he had to see what was wrong with her.

Nothing in fact – she had just finished the song.

Once again, he was surprised; _why _had he been watching _Christian again_? He had to get this thing under control. He had grinned when he saw a flicker of annoyance pass over the writer's face and he'd told Christine to stop singing, only much nicer and with the help of lying.

He grinned momentarily then turned and glared back down at the ever-watching Madame Giry and the completely unaware Christian, who was looking slightly tired. Madame Giry, never breaking eye contact with Erik, took a step towards Christian. He gave her a warning glance.

'Good morning, monsieur,' she said and Christian started, turning around hastily.

'Good morning to you too, madam,' he said, and all Erik could see was the back of the writer's head. He glared harder down at Madame Giry, who was now focusing on Christian easily.

'I would like to ask you about your visit with the ghost.'

Erik felt an urge to drop a sandbag on her – alas, there were none close at hand, and he was stuck in her debt for the rest of his life: she _had _saved him.

'Oh. Go ahead.' Christian sounded a little apprehensive. Erik couldn't help but grin.

'What exactly happened?'

He heard Christian pause, confused. 'Well. We talked. Um. That about sums it up, sorry. Why?'

'Have you seen him anymore?'

'Yesterday afternoon.'

_And last night_, Erik thought. Madame Giry glanced at him again and he sneered back at her. _Stop whatever you're doing right now._

She carried on. 'What happened then?'

Christian, again, sounded confused. 'Nothing. We talked.'

'That's all?'

'Well, what else would we be doing?'

Erik fought back an urge to add, 'Yes, _what else_ would we be doing?' Feeling like that wouldn't be the right way to show he was there, he kept quiet.

He shook his head; he'd had enough of the play today. He quietly slipped off into the darkness.

--

Raoul watched as Christian walked out onto stage, giving his wife some tips on what she was doing – he was barely listening, instead watching the other man's lips move.

He hadn't stopped thinking about him since Erik had kidnapped the young man – he watched as the writer smiled at Christine and couldn't help but let his eyes travel over the young man. He felt himself lick his lips. This could be easy.

--

Christian looked up as Firmin and Andre waltzed up to him, looking concerned. He was sitting in front of his typewriter, in his room. They looked uncomfortably squashed in here.

'Evening, gentlemen,' he said, smiling pleasantly at the both of them. They smiled back, obviously fake. Christian decided to let it slip.

'Well, Mister – Writer,' said Andre, adding the last bit in hastily, 'you see, we've had a bit of a problem.'

'What?'

'Well, we're supposed to have a show tomorrow night –'

'Tomorrow night?!' Christian repeated, eyes widening and he stood up. 'But we've _barely cast_ _anyone _–'

'Ex_actly_,' said Firmin, cutting the stunned writer off, 'but before you came, the actors were rehearsing another play – a rather passionate play about love, I'm sure,' he added. 'And they know it very well. So we decided we'd use that for the next few nights, all right with you?'

'But why did we have to have a play tomorrow night?' Christian asked, adrenaline still running from the sheerly terrifying thought the managers had put into his head that they might have had to have to play ready by tomorrow night.

'Well, we mustn't disappoint our public,' said Firmin, smiling grandly.

'And that opera ghost wants his salary,' Andre grumbled and was quickly elbowed by Firmin, who gave him a quick stern look then turned back to Christian, smiling.

Christian had heard though – he couldn't help but grin back. _Erik has a salary?_

'Anyway,' continued Firmin, 'we just thought we'd let you know.'

'Well, thank you,' said Christian, still trying not to laugh from the thought of the managers having to pay the opera ghost.

'All right, our work here is done,' Firmin said, pulling Andre away and crossly muttering to him as they hastily walked out of Christian's small room and disappeared.

Christian was still grinning as he looked back at his pages. He frowned when he remembered – he had nothing to write about. He smiled. Perhaps he should go watch that opera the next night.

'Are you going tomorrow night?'

Christian jumped and looked over at his mirror, which had silently slid open and now held a smirking Erik.

'That's not reassuring that you can do that.'

'Answer my question: are – you – going?'

'To the opera?'

'No, to the circus. _Yes_, the opera,' Erik rolled his eyes.

'I like the circus,' Christian said defensively. He thought this might earn some sign of amusement from the man but instead the ghost's eyes clouded over and the side of his mouth twitched. The writer wondered once again – why did he wear that mask?

'Probably,' he said. 'But not on the opening night.'

'Why not?' Erik frowned.

Christian shrugged. He actually wasn't sure why he'd said that; in fact, it would've been great to go on the opening night.

'There'll be no seats,' he said lamely, sure the ghost wouldn't take it as an answer.

'I have a box. I'm sure you'll be fine,' the ghost said, starting to grin. Christian rolled his eyes. 'Are you trying to coax me into seeing the opera?'

'Maybe I am,' Erik said, still smirking and Christian felt a little funny. He looked back at his typewriter, shook his head and tried to think, ignoring the ghost.

'According to the managers, this play is about love. You heard them.'

'Is that _supposed_ to work?' Christian asked, sounding disinterested; he was really surprised Erik was so intent on having him go.

'Will you stop answering me with questions?' Erik replied.

Christian grinned at the man who was currently scowling at him. 'Fine. I'll go. On one condition.'

Erik looked wary. 'What?'

'Tell me why you have a salary.'

--

The play was being rehearsed downstairs, Erik could hear it, but he was enjoying Christian's company too much to care.

The writer was sitting up against the wall, Erik leaning against the now closed mirror. He'd shut the door at some point casually, to make sure no one would look in and wonder what the opera ghost was doing there, and without Christian really noticing, as he'd been talking too much.

Not that Erik minded. It was interesting to hear the stories that came out of Christian's mouth – they were stories about how he'd come to Paris, things that had happened when he was a child and things involving Satine.

Erik hoped Christian wouldn't ask him anything. _How did you spend your childhood? I was the Devil's Child until I was thirteen, then I murdered my captor and ran away to the Opera Populaire with the help of the woman you now know as Madame Giry. Fun times, hm?_

The ghost realised Christian had stopped talking and was looking at his typewriter again.

'Idea?' asked Erik, eyes switching between the two.

'No. Just... No.'

'I can go.'

Christian gave him an odd look. 'It's fine, really.' When Erik didn't break the eye contact, he did. 'You're completely fine where you are,' he said firmly.

'Why did you forgive Raoul?' Erik asked suddenly.

Christian looked up at Erik, who was back to leaning on the mirror again. He connected their gaze again, but seemed to look right past those jade eyes...

'Christian?' Erik could see the other man's mind was somewhere else. He hated being ignored, especially when someone was staring right at him.

'What?' the writer asked, blinking.

'Why – did you – forgive – Raoul?' Erik felt his hands curl into fists.

Christian noticed this and pretended not to. He looked at the wall. 'Well, I guess because there was nothing else I could do.'

'And that's it? You could hold a life-long grudge against him.' The opera ghost sounded like he was grinning now. The writer could practically imagine the playful look in his eyes.

'Yes, but I'd rather not. I can't help it. It's the kind of person I am. Can we get off this subject?' Christian asked, suddenly irritated.

'Of course not,' Erik said as if that was obvious.

'I won't come tomorrow night.'

To his surprise, Erik stopped talking. Still, Christian could almost feel the 'amused vibes' flowing off him. He blushed and looked out the door.

He frowned.

'When did the door close?' he asked, looking over at Erik –

Erik – who was now completely gone. Nothing was there except an open mirror.

Christian blinked, stood up and closed the mirror. 'I'm surrounded by maniacs,' he told himself and sat down on his bed, frowning up at the ceiling.


	7. Chapter 7

**I'M BACK –**

**:) Hope you like this chapter. PLEASE REVIEW, MY LIFE DEPENDS ON IT – lying, I'll be fine, but just hope you enjoy it.**

**Chapter Seven**

Christian barely knew what time it was; all he knew was that he couldn't sleep – well, the truth was, he had been sleeping, but he'd woken up and right now felt quite awake.

Besides barely knowing what the time was, he knew it wasn't morning – or anywhere near. He couldn't hear anyone. It was completely silent.

He waited, turning onto his left side, staring at the mirror.

_What do you think of Erik? _

Christian blinked – a small voice had just intruded his mind. Worse, he reckoned he'd heard this before.

_What?_

_Tell me. What do you think of him?_

The writer arched an eyebrow as he turned back to look at the ceiling. _He's a friend. He's a lot more interesting than everyone else in this place._

_That's it? _

Christian rolled his eyes. This was just his 'inner self' talking.

_What do you mean? Of course it is, isn't it?_

But he could feel himself blushing.

He hadn't thought of Satine for a long time. He waited to feel the expected flow of sadness wash over him.

It came, but not as strong.

He sat up – it had only been a year. He was not over Satine.

The writer flopped back down again, running a hand through his hair. Who had said he _was _over Satine? No one. There.

And even if he _had _been over Satine, then who else would he have thinking about? Was something trying to give him the wrong idea about –

He put his hands in front of his eyes and groaned. This was stupid. Really, it was.

He looked back at the mirror. He was not somehow hoping Erik would show up, and if he was, it was just because they were friends. Christian hoped his inner voice understood that. Besides, everything it was telling him was idiotic and... a lie.

There was a quiet sliding sound – Christian sat up immediately and looked at the mirror. Unfortunately, whoever had been coming in had seen him awake and run off, leaving the mirror door a little open.

Christian pulled himself to his feet, opening the mirror wider – he could now step inside. He walked into the passageway, shivering as the cold hit him – he probably should have pulled a shirt on.

'Erik?' he asked, hearing his voice ring out forever.

Silence.

'I know you're here.'

He waited hopefully for a few moments. No answer. He felt a flare of amusement inside him as a thought hit him. Erik wouldn't be able to resist this one. 'You've been asking for my work. What's yours?'

He waited again, counting silently. When he got to six, he stared firmly through the darkness and felt the hope crash down around him. Trying not to act so disappointed, he climbed back into his room, shutting the door in what he hoped wasn't too hard.

He fell back on his bed, looking up at the roof again, pillowing his head on his hands. That had been useless. He was _sure _Erik would've done something. He'd only heard Erik sing a few times, briefly – he liked it immensely.

He thought about it again. He always forgot to ask Erik when he saw him; how did he know 'Your Song'? He grinned. He had to ask him that.

He lay there for a moment, lost entirely in thought, when, fairly faint, a sound hit his ears.

Without really thinking, he jumped back to his feet, whipping the closed mirror open. The music was still faint, but he could hear it better. It was echoing through the hallways. He couldn't hear voice, but he waited, hardly daring to breathe.

'_Night-time sharpens,  
heightens each sensation  
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination  
Silently the senses abandon their defences ...  
'Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendour  
Grasp it, sense it - tremulous and tender  
Turn your face away  
from the garish light of day,  
turn your thoughts away  
from cold, unfeeling light -  
and listen to the music of the night ..._  
_ 'Let your mind start a journey  
through a strange new world  
Leave all thoughts  
of the world you knew before  
Let your soul take you where you  
long to be...'_

Christian was practically frozen, his heart loud in his ears – Erik's voice was incredible – it really was. He'd been blessed or something. Already, the writer was trying to file the words into his mind, but he could hardly think – that had been brilliant and he hadn't even been up close. That had been played deep beneath the opera house and that song had just travelled up through the passageways.

The writer nearly fell over he was leaning so far into the passage. He grabbed onto the mirror, making sure he wouldn't. Then, on a whir of the excitement in his chest – for it _couldn't _be anything else but excitement – he grinned and yelled 'Knew you couldn't resist!' Still chuckling, he closed the door, falling back onto the bed, smiling for a long time, until he fell asleep.

--

Erik smirked when he heard Christian's words echo back down to him. He decided that had meant the writer liked it.

He stood up, distinguishing candles for no real reason. What was wrong with him? He shouldn't have done that. That was something he'd do only for Christine.

Christine.

He leaned against a wall in the darkness, thinking hard. When Christian had accidently brushed against him. He felt warmness spread through his shoulder and rolled his eyes, forcing that away. No, that was stupid. He needed to think about Christine.

_Christine._

_Christine._

_Christian._

Erik gritted his teeth. This was _infuriating. _Why couldn't he stop thinking about this goddamned writer?

He frowned. The writer could sing a lot better than Christine though.

_No, that's not right –_

Yes, it was.

He growled. Yes, it was right. He liked Christian's voice better – it was just stronger somehow. He didn't know what it was. But...

He shook his head and decided he'd go see Christian in the morning.

--

Christian woke up later than usual. He would've been perfectly content to sleep for the rest of the day when someone told him irritably to 'get up and that they'd been waiting for hours.'

He stirred and opened his eyes; something white –

Christian jolted and realised it was Erik; he sat up quickly, wishing for some reason he had a shirt on.

Erik smirked at him and Christian tried not to blush. '_What_ are you doing here?'

'Wondering when you'd wake up.'

'You could do that... somewhere else.'

Erik laughed; Christian sat up a little straighter but continued on. 'Why do I have to get up now?' he continued stubbornly, picking up his shirt on the floor and pulling it on.

He didn't realise Erik was watching him move a little vacantly. He sat back up and looked expectantly at the ghost, who gave him a mocking smile before saying, 'It's two hours until that opera starts.'

Christian blinked. 'Oh, well. Touché.' He looked around and grinned at Erik, no awkward trace about him. They were friends. 'Brilliant job last night.'

He wondered for a second if the opera ghost was watching his lips move more than his eyes – that's what it looked like.

He shrugged and stood up, stretching, hearing a few _pops _as his shoulders cracked. He couldn't see Erik smiling at him from behind – a smile free of any kind of mocking.

The writer turned back to Erik. 'So, really, is it two hours until the show?'

Erik rolled his eyes. 'Why do you bother asking?'

'Because you probably say things just to get me up.'

'Would I do that to you?'

Christian stared at Erik, who narrowed his eyes and said, 'Don't answer that.'

The writer couldn't help it; he laughed, tried to hide the fact that he was laughing then grinned at Erik's surprised expression. He couldn't help but notice the ghost looked slightly pleased with himself. 'Look, I'll see you in two hours then,' Christian said, smiling again.

Once again, it appeared Erik was watching his lips more than his eyes. 'Good,' said the ghost after a moment, standing up and sliding open the mirror. Christian opened the actual door as Erik disappeared, walking out into the hallway and downstairs to see if he could get some kind of food substance before getting ready.

--

It didn't take him very long; he ran back to his apartment and found an old suit he had he was sure most of the other men at the opera would be wearing tonight. He dusted it off, grabbed a few other things from his apartment that would be good to have in the opera house, and hurriedly made it back to the Opera Populaire.

He bumped into Christine on the way in. She smiled at him. 'Oh, Christian, it's wonderful to see you!'

'You too,' he said, smiling back at her; he felt a twitch of annoyance though and he didn't know why.

'Oh, how wonderful will this performance be?'

'Er. Wonderful indeed –'

'Do you think they'll like me?' Christine asked wistfully.

'I'm sure they –'

'Oh, I must go and get ready. But have a good night! Come and see it sometime,' Christine said brightly, hugging him and running off. The writer looked after her, unable to believe how brief and odd that had been.

He finally made it back to his room, cleaned himself up and changed, waiting until he heard the ruckus down below him, indicating people were walking into the grand Opera Populaire. He took his time on getting to Box Five, avoiding the ways he knew would be crowded – he didn't want Erik to think he was trying to get there as fast as possible.

When he opened the door, Erik wasn't there – he felt a little glad of that. That meant he could wait until the ghost himself came – or something. Wait, why was he glad?

He sat down, waiting for the opera to begin. He had no idea what it was about and wondered if he could follow it somehow. It was about love, but it would be twisted around so that someone would be someone's long lost sister, and they'd both be afraid of the bedlam that really was their mother, and the father would really be a goat or something –

The door opened behind him and he whirled around. Erik smirked. 'Enjoying yourself?'

Christian stared at him for a moment, drinking in the playful green eyes. Then he looked at the stage. 'Yeah, yeah, it's brilliant.'

'It hasn't even started yet.'

'That... doesn't mean I'm not enjoying myself.'

Erik smirked again but as soon as the writer wasn't looking his face took on a different expression – he was watching Christian's every move.

The writer turned around to face him. 'You look very... like you.'

'Might I say you look different?' Christian grinned at him and he filed the image into his memory. He looked down at the writer's lips once again. What if he closed the distance?

His gaze snapped up to the blue eyes, forcing not to look any lower. _That had been way out of line –_

He sat down quickly and Christian sat down next to him, watching the stage, looking mildly interested. He couldn't help but wonder over what he'd just been thinking. _Close the distance? _Was there some possible chance he'd had a drink? No, felt completely sober.

Except for the small exert of madness that wouldn't let him tear his eyes away from Christian, who was waiting patiently as the curtains opened and Carlotta began singing.

Erik grimaced – damn it, he'd forgotten to write something to the managers about that. He should hang someone.

He looked over at the writer again, who was still watching the stage, slightly blank but fully ready to understand. He couldn't stop staring.

He glanced at the stage and saw Christine. It didn't help at all.

This was not going well.

He looked back at Christian and found he didn't really care much at all about Carlotta's screeching and the audience laughing at random; the writer looked thoughtful. Was he getting ideas from this? Erik hoped so.

'Wait, so, she's the...?' Christian looked over at Erik, eye's pleading for some kind of help.

'I – have no idea,' Erik said, frowning down at Carlotta, who was glittery as usual. He also didn't like to admit he had no idea what was going on.

He saw Christian grin out of the corner of his eye and decided it was a good thing.

For the rest of the play, he barely watched the drama build up and the excuse the cast called love and the singing; what he really enjoyed was Christian's reactions to the parts. The writer might understand a joke and laugh – other times he'd look completely confused – when someone revealed themselves to be someone else's sister, Erik grinned to himself as Christian rolled his eyes and breathed, 'Knew it.'

He felt suddenly warm – he flinched for a moment because it was a different feeling. He forced himself to look at the stage, managing for a few moments then his eyes won the battle and slowly turned back to the writer. He watched Christian for a few more moments and listened as the play began to reach its musical climax, the song about passion and love and everything else.

Christian blinked. The play wasn't really interesting. Sure, the ending sounded nice, but there was no _real _love in this. _It's a play, of course not_ – but there was just something about it that seemed too – fake. He was starting to get irritated.

He looked over at Erik to see the ghost's reaction, expecting to see irritation or an amused expression – to his surprise, the ghost was looking right at him, without any playful look, without any smirks, without any real expression except –

Christian stared back at Erik, the play fading out of his hearing. Their eyes locked, green on blue. Neither of them was really sure who leaned forwards first – it seemed to be Erik, but Christian didn't really care – he wasn't focusing on anything but –

As the play about love reached its best point, voices rang out, everyone went wild, there was applause – they kissed.

Sparks flew and the writer felt warmth spreading through him.

Christian barely knew what to think – in fact, his mouth wasn't really connected to his mind anymore, so he couldn't properly think. All he really knew was that there was clapping now, loud, wonderful clapping, and that he was tilting his head to the left and that this moment really couldn't be any more perfect.

_This is Erik_. Something inside him snapped; _this is Erik. _Panic steadily rose.

Erik noticed the writer had stopped; confused and annoyed that it had happened, he immediately realised he was filled with adrenaline and how much closer he wanted to be; his lungs were screaming for air, but he'd rather pass out on this than stop intentionally. He knew he was practically half on Christian's seat but he didn't care – he crushed his lips hard against the writer's.

Christian felt the panic rising in his brain, fought to breathe harder – this was _Erik._ _Think about Satine – _that wasn't helping. With no warning, he pushed Erik back into his seat, letting his airway gain oxygen again. Erik stared at him, half-questioningly, breathing hard as he watched the writer.

Christian scrambled to his feet and ran out of Box Five, unable to think properly. All he could hear was the applause and whistling and cheering for the end of the opera.

--

Christian hid in the crowds that were slowly drifting out of the Opera Populaire, still talking about the excitement and the play.

Erik had _kissed _him.

He didn't want to go to his apartment – he'd probably be hit by a cart, or something, he felt a little disorientated. And he didn't want to go back to his room – the mirror was there, and that was just making it a little too easy for Erik to find him.

He was at a complete loss for two things; one he thought rather easily, why had he kissed Erik back? And two was something he'd only really thought once then felt too embarrassed about it; why had he ended it?

_You liked it._

He shook his head vigorously, trying to get that thought to leave him alone. The crowds were leaving, slipping away like liquid mercury. He needed someplace to run, to hide, where no one would be – the only place he could think of was the stage. In his haste to leave and his mind fully occupied, he didn't notice the Vicomte watching him then follow him.

--

Christian finally threw off his jacket and crumpled behind stage, his head in his hands, wondering what had just happened. He had _not _just kissed another man and liked it. He loved Satine. That was it. _But that was amazing..._

_No, stop it! Think about... writing! Okay, how about for an idea... under an opera house – No, wait! – Um, mirrors – no!_

He groaned; his mind really _was _too occupied with that thought. He felt terrible; he'd just ruined his favourite friendship in this entire house. He felt a tidal wave of guilt wash over him as he remembered how Erik had looked slightly betrayed – he hadn't noticed that before.

He heard footsteps and jumped to his feet – _please, don't be Erik –_

'Oh. Vicomte, it's you.'

'Who did you expect it to be?' Raoul sounded cheery. Good for him. Christian looked over at the other man, wary. The last time, Raoul had attacked him.

'No one,' he said, loudly enough so that if Erik _was here _he'd get the message. Then he realised he had no idea what the 'message' actually was. Still, he felt compelled to act angry.

He didn't _feel _angry though. Just confused and surprised.

The Vicomte smiled at him, tilting his head playfully. Christian didn't really register this reaction – he was completely lost in the thoughts about the ghost. He was thinking hard; earlier, he'd expressed some kind of interest in the ghost, but _friendly_, right? Not...

No, he hadn't, had he? Because he did _not _feel that way about Erik. He didn't feel that way about anyone.

Anyone except Satine, he added.

That was right. Wasn't it?

He stopped musing and looked at Raoul – who had suddenly become way too close. Christian cleared his throat, taking a step back. He wasn't keen to be with the Vicomte – in fact, he felt he should probably go and find Erik – try to explain –

_How could he explain that?! 'Sorry for shoving my tongue down your throat, see you tomorrow'?!_

'What are you doing back here?'

'Back where?' Christian asked irritably, walking out onto the stage to get away from the Vicomte – and stopping.

Whenever he'd been on-stage, he'd never looked out at the seats, at the full _room _itself, he'd always focus on the actors and the singing. Now, as he looked at the entire room, he wondered if any of the cast felt like this when they performed. He stood up straighter and walked downstage, looking out at all the seats.

It was amazing.

Everyone had left. It was empty. Yet, Christian could imagine everyone here. It was different than the Moulin Rouge. The Moulin Rouge, you could be as crazy as you liked. The very air of this place told you that you'd better behave properly.

He felt his heart sink. _Shit_.

'Brilliant, isn't it?' Raoul asked, from behind him.

'Yeah,' Christian said, looking down. He should feel angry. He _was _angry. The ghost had no right to do that. He'd never done anything, never said anything to imply _that_.

Had he?

--

Erik didn't really know what to think.

Yes, he did. He'd kissed Christian, who'd pushed away then ran. He couldn't help but bitterly think how much quicker that would have been if Christian had just seen his face...

He gritted his teeth – yes, he'd kissed the writer. He didn't know how that really added up, seeing as how he was supposed to be in love with Christine, who he could barely watch tonight. He frowned. Surely he hadn't been in love with Christine if every thought of her was suddenly fading and disappearing?

He growled. He'd ruined everything, like he always did. He hadn't bothered to leave Box Five – there was no real reason to. He thought about Christian – that was it. He didn't care if Christian hated him – this was a challenge. He felt himself grinning. It could be fun.

He realised quite suddenly everyone was gone. He made to stand up and leave when he heard footsteps – not close, they were echoing off the stage. He looked in the direction, personally ready to hang anyone – especially if it was that fop, Raoul.

There were more footsteps and the first person groaned; Erik stood up fully, leaning over the banister to his box; that was Christian.

Then he heard, 'Oh. Vicomte, it's you.'

Erik didn't hear Raoul's reply; he felt his grip tighten in anger and, yes, possibly possessiveness. If Raoul did _anything _he'd be hanging from the rafters_..._

Then he waited anxiously to hear Christian talk again. An odd thought sprung up and he half-wished Christian would sing again.

'No one.' The writer's words rang out. Erik cursed – he should've listened to Raoul's question. There were so many uses of the words 'no one'.

There was a long pause. As said before, Erik wasn't patient. He was close to breaking the banister in anxiety.

'What are you doing back here?' Raoul said.

'Back where?' Christian responded, sounding – Erik grinned, relief flooding over him – irritated. He heard footsteps again and suddenly; Christian was there without his suit jacket, _on stage,_ staring out at everything. He walked forwards, looking thoughtful and slightly stunned. The ghost's grip tightened; he was not going to go on stage.

The patron walked out behind Christian, taking in the writer. Erik stopped and watched Raoul, who was looking at the other man almost hungrily. 'Brilliant, isn't it?' said Raoul, absent-mindedly, eyes travelling over Christian. Erik twitched, feeling the flare of rage flow through him.

'Yeah,' Christian breathed – then shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at his feet. The ghost flinched – _he's thinking about it_. He hadn't meant for Christian to look _that _out of place. This made him feel more determined.

Raoul stalked around Christian, the writer not noticing anything – Erik tensed, visibly, he knew it. 'You look a little upset,' he said, his voice low.

Christian's head whipped up and he glared at the patron suddenly. 'Oh really, I'm upset? I wouldn't have guessed. And what do you intend to do about it, Vicomte?'

The patron stepped up closer than Erik would've liked. He was still tensed.

'Quite a bit,' the Vicomte replied then closed the distance between him and the writer, crushing his lips against the other man's.

Erik's jaw dropped open, completely unable to register anything at the moment. All he could see was Raoul pressing up against Christian so hard that they were stumbling up against a corner of the stage, where Christian was now trapped against a wall and the Vicomte. He was looking at Raoul with wide eyes, looking positively scared; but Erik couldn't see that. All he was taking note of was that Raoul was kissing Christian.

He started shaking; he didn't know what he felt more, rage or betrayal; he looked at Christian, who's eyes were now closed and who was kissing Raoul back, tilting his head slightly. Raoul's hands, which he had been holding on Christian's shoulders, went lower... past his chest, stomach, hips...

Erik's hold on the banister tightened; he lost everything to Raoul.

The banister split, creating a loud _crack_ing sound that echoed throughout the room; Raoul stopped, opening his eyes, looking around confused and Erik took a step back, into the darkness, glaring at them both – Christian the most. The writer's eyes opened slowly and he jolted when he saw Raoul in front of him – he pushed Raoul away quickly, looking incredibly frightened.

'Stay away from me!'

'Don't be like that –' Raoul grinned roguishly.

'_Stay away from me!_' Christian repeated, looking completely broken and angry – Erik didn't care. He watched stonily as the writer turned and ran behind the stage, his footsteps disappearing into the darkness. Raoul, still grinning, wiped his lips and strode off the stage, looking proud of himself.

Erik turned, ran out into the hallway and sprinted down one of the passages he knew – _back home _– so he could think.

--

Madame Giry had been watching, as usual – she had noticed Raoul's eyes lingering on the writer, but it had seemed in the wrong kind of way. She followed to ensure no trouble would begin.

Then she'd seen Erik – she'd been surprised to see the man standing still in his box, as if waiting for someone. She'd been even more surprised when Christian had walked onto the stage and Erik had grinned.

But if that had been surprising, it was nothing compared to what happened next; the patron kissed the writer, acting completely normal. Christian had looked completely terrified, trapped between the wall and the Vicomte; then his eyes had somewhat fogged over and closed.

She turned to see Erik's reaction to this – she still had no idea what his relationships with this writer was – and felt a wave of sorrow for her friend; he was shaking visibly, gripping tightly on the banister of Box Five. She looked over at the patron, wishing desperately to stop this – the only person enjoying it was Raoul, who she was already disgusted with; was Christine not enough?

There was a crack that echoed through the theatre like a gunshot – she looked over at Box Five and saw the wooden banister had cracked and Erik was hidden, or gone.

She heard Christian yelling suddenly and turned back – the writer was glaring furiously at Raoul, but also looked on the verge of tears. Raoul sounded amused, 'Don't be like that –'

'_Stay away from me!_' Christian's true feelings – and they were broken feelings – came out in that small sentence. He turned and ran, probably close to losing his mind.

Madame Giry turned and hurried to find the passage that led to Erik's lair – she felt now was a very dangerous time for the Vicomte or Christian, for reasons she didn't understand.

--

Christian nearly broke the door in his haste to get into his room; he slammed it shut, fell onto his bed and curled up, shaking.

That _had _been violation. He knew it. He also felt incredibly terrified of what he'd been thinking – for some short time, when his eyes had been closed, he'd been _sure _it was Erik. That was when he'd kissed back.

Oh, God, this was insane. He put his head in his hands and let out a half-scream, half-laugh that bordered on insanity. He should've known – Raoul was being incredibly rough, he'd known something was wrong – when he opened his eyes, suddenly, it was the patron in front of him, not the opera ghost.

He felt himself jerk and shake, trying to forget everything; this was stupid.

_The mirror,_ he remembered.

He sat up slowly, swallowing hard. Quietly, he made his way to the mirror, opening the door. He looked inside, turning his head to the left and to the right. All he could see was dark passageways, cobwebs and – what sounded like rats.

'Erik?' he asked tentatively. No answer.

He cursed and closed the mirror, falling back on his bed. He'd have to find him tomorrow. Maybe he would've calmed down by then.

--

She stopped at the mirror, opening it after a short pause and staring at the black curtains. She could hear movement and sounds indicating various things were tipping over.

'Erik?' Madame Giry stepped through the curtains, shocked to see the state of the home.

There had been papers flung everywhere and a table was overturned. Candelabras had been broken quite viciously, and wax dripped over the floor, staining pages. Things had also been thrown and shattered against the surface.

Erik was sitting at the organ, gazing out over the lake and at the portcullis, trying to act as though he were calm. Madame Giry noted the clenched fists and incredibly furious eyes were a give-away.

'Erik, what's wrong?' she said calmly.

He looked up at her and the corner of his mouth twitched. He stood up, walking across the room as though it were completely normal to have a ransacked home. 'Wrong?' He laughed forcibly then overturned another table right in front of her, continuing to walk past as she stared firmly ahead at the portcullis, determined not to act frightened at her friend's mood swings. 'Nothing's wrong.'

'I know you were there when Raoul and Christian –'

She heard another crash from behind her, sighed inwardly, feeling immense sorrow for him, then continued. 'I know you were there. I do _not _know, however, why you were so angry.'

She could feel him glaring at her back.

'Seeing as how you'd never tell me anything, I'd like to ask you _at least _keep away from Christian –'

Erik laughed again – she nearly shuddered at the cold it held. 'Of course. _Keep away from Christian_,' he mocked, walking in front of her again and glaring. 'The opera house needs a play writer to earn a few more francs –'

'Let's not forget who keeps _taking _those francs for his _salary_,' Madame Giry snapped back. '_Do not _hurt Christian – take it out on Raoul.'

'And what if I don't want to?'

Madame Giry's heart sank – the ghost was mad _at Christian_. She tried to place Erik's reactions and came to only one conclusion.

'Do you harbour feelings for either of them?'

Erik stared at her, one eye twitched, and she knew she was on the right track. She gazed stonily back at him and he growled, turning around and trudging back through the mess, trying to ignore her. She saw his back disappear into the drawing room.

'Is it Raoul?'

Erik laughed again – that cold cruel laugh. She was silent, eyes narrowing as she realised what was happening finally. 'Is it Christian?'

There was silence – the footsteps stopped. Madame Giry knew she'd hit the nail on the head. She continued on. 'He looked terrified. Raoul closed in on him and he was trapped.'

There was another crash and she shook her head patiently; Erik obviously didn't think so. 'Please, it's not the writer's fault.'

Erik appeared again, walking straight up to her. 'Stop _telling me what to think_.'

'Then stop _thinking_ the wrong things,' she replied calmly. 'It wasn't Christian's fault that the Vicomte decided to kiss him –'

Erik pushed her suddenly; she fell back onto the ground, catching herself on her hands, afraid for a moment. She looked up at Erik and watched as his expression changed from fury to disbelief and disgust to himself. He held out his hand, which she clasped onto and he pulled her to her feet. 'I apologise,' he said quietly, slightly ashamed he'd done that.

Madame Giry cleared his throat. 'Is there any way you can leave him alone?'

'I've _tried_,' Erik snapped. 'I've tried and it's _useless!_'

Madame Giry nodded. 'Try harder – and remember it's not his fault. He's a victim.'

Erik stared down at her.

'Just _stay away _from him,' Madame Giry pleaded. 'You'll have no control over your actions. You'll only do something you'll regret.'

The ghost finally nodded slowly.

'You'll stay away from him?'

Erik twitched again then nodded.

Madame Giry felt relief wallow through her. 'Thank you,' she said, turning away and running back through the mirror, her footsteps disappearing into the darkness.

The ghost walked back to drawing room, avoiding the destroyed furniture. He looked on a shelf and picked up a small monkey holding cymbals. It grinned at him, eyes wide and blank. He wished he could throw it across the room, but he'd regret it later. He slid it back onto the shelf, turned around and flipped over the chair in front of him.

_Just stay away from him! You'll have no control over your actions!_

Erik sneered. That wasn't going to matter anymore.

--

**Poor Erik. :(**

**Damn that Raoul! (Walks up to Vicomte with swishy hair and slaps him).**

**Please review? :) **


	8. Chapter 8

13

**Chapter Eight**

The first thing he realised was that all his muscles hurt like hell. He unfurled himself out of the ball he'd curled into last night, everything protesting. He must've fallen asleep like that.

He turned onto his back, not bothering to stretch; last night's events crept up on him. Almost instinctively he turned towards the mirror; no Erik.

He muttered a particularly bad swear word to himself then sat up. Last night didn't seem as bad as before. He'd slept it off. It wasn't as crazy.

Yet.

He had no idea what Raoul might do – he was incredibly guilty to what Erik might do. He winced, stood up and pulled on the dress shirt from last night. No one would notice and no one would care.

Walking down the wooden stairs and ignoring the ratty man who gave him a hiss, Christian found he couldn't stop thinking about that bloody opera ghost.

The ghost who's voice really was amazing. The ghost who was really way too appealing. The ghost who Christian felt a wave of guilt over every time he thought about him –

He didn't feel hungry – he cut breakfast and walked straight to the stage. He knew there was no real point to be there – they'd be rehearsing that other play for tonight, and the next night. He ignored the chorus girls giving him flirtatious glances and walked stoically into the theatre.

He stopped at the large crowd that were gathered around Box Five – or at least, looking at it from below. He ran over, praying not to see someone had gotten hurt –

_The fall wouldn't kill anyone, would it?_

Then he stopped – the banister was splintered open.

'Who broke it?' Firmin was raging. 'That'll cost us _a lot _thank you very much –'

'Monsieur,' Madame Giry was saying calmly, 'the opera ghost has his reasons.' With that, upon noticing Christian was here, she cast him a meaningful glance.

Christian frowned then his jaw dropped open; last night – that crack –

_Erik had seen everything._

Oh, God. Just after they'd –

He fell over, gripping onto a chair to keep himself steady. Madame Giry took a step towards him, ready to help, but he righted almost immediately, feeling the guilt etch all over his face. He looked down, hoping no one would notice.

Christine, however, in that loud, dramatic voice she had earned from stage, said, 'Oh, what's wrong?'

Everyone's heads swivelled to look at Christian. He looked back at them, swallowing the lump in his throat. He looked bewildered instead and tried, 'I'm just wondering why anyone would want to break the opera house.'

He felt another wave of guilt as he thought of the ghost's reaction.

_Don't be listening right now, please._

Firmin sighed. 'Well, I'm_ sure_ the ghost went to the performance last night, so I think we'll have time to fix it.'

'Of course!' Andre said, shaking Firmin's hand suddenly. The other faces lit up; the opera ghost wouldn't be angry.

'Honest-a, if you aska _moi_, _he _should fix it,' muttered Carlotta. Christian couldn't help but glare at her back and her long glittery nails and bangles.

'Senora,' said a set operator, staring at her in surprise. 'You mustn't say that –'

'And _why not_?' snapped Carlotta, turning around at the set operator and glaring at his pale figure.

'Because the ghost mightn't have had any control over what he was doing,' Christian snapped at her from behind. She whirled around to face him, baring her teeth. 'Why you always defending him?!'

'I _never _defend him, you just find problems wherever you go,' Christian said calmly, glaring back. _It was HIS fault, they should be mad at HIM, not Erik –_

Carlotta looked as though she might faint at the insult – Firmin and Andre rushed forwards to catch her as she tipped back, her eyes rolling.

'Watch your tongue, boy!' Andre barked at the young man, pushing past the writer to help Carlotta to her room, both of them muttering insults about Christian to make the prima donna feel better.

'How _dare he_?'

'Ignorant little –'

'So _ungrateful _– and not recognising your talents –'

Christian could feel the rest of the set looking at him; he'd had enough – he rolled his eyes and said, 'You're all thinking the same thing.'

They all looked away, as if the fact he'd talked indicated he'd noticed their staring, not that they were so obvious – and they all looked a little guilty. Meg Giry gave Christian an empathic look. He shook his head, turned and left the theatre, wondering why he even bothered.

--

As soon as he was back to his room, he opened the mirror again. He was surprised that it wasn't sealed off.

'Erik?' he called, listening to his voice echo down the passages. He let it hang for a moment then tried again. 'Erik?'

No answer.

--

The next day wasn't any better.

The Vicomte had somehow gotten it into his head Christian had enjoyed two nights ago and was therefore taking any opportunity to just touch him. Thankfully it hadn't gotten any worse than that, but groping was nonetheless something to make him avoid Raoul.

He couldn't believe the patron; he was insecure. He had to be. The first thing he does is beat him up and now he couldn't stop groping him? Honestly, this was _unbelievable_.

He couldn't find Erik anywhere. He'd tried and had slowly gotten it into his head the ghost wasn't going to talk to him. This thought had taken a depressing toll; everyone had noticed he'd become a lot quieter and a small ounce of pain had come back into his eyes. It was growing and everyone wondered what could be the cause of it.

'I think he likes Madame Christine,' one of the sopranos decided.

'Maybe he wishes we could continue on with his play, instead of this tosh about love.'

'Yes, maybe,' the actors agreed – they enjoyed having something to talk about other than the opera ghost.

Speaking of the opera ghost, there had been no real accidents over the last few days – it was _brilliant_, not having to worry about one of the instruments being broken, or someone hanging from the roof, or finding a dead person in your room with a sword through their stomach; it was bliss.

The writer was sitting on a crate he'd pulled closer to the stage, writing on a piece of paper with a pen and half-not-really listening to Christine's attempt at Satine. She could sing, yes, but he just found her so _annoying _for some reason.

'Christian,' he heard her say and looked up at her anxious face. 'You're not listening to me.'

'I am,' he protested, nodding. He sounded slightly drained, somehow. 'It's really good.'

'No, you're writing down lyrics or something on that paper.'

Christian looked down at the paper and cursed; yes, he'd written lyrics, but nothing he'd composed.

_Let your mind start a journey  
through a strange new world  
Leave all thoughts  
of the world you knew before  
Let your soul take you where you  
long to be._

He crumpled up the paper, lobbed it to a corner then went back to protesting.'Um, I still listened. Really,' he added, not really knowing why he was trying to act so nice.

Christine smiled at him. _All is forgiven. _'Well, you _have _been a little off-colour,' she said, shrugging.

The writer nodded back. Christine inhaled, playing the words a few more times in her head. She opened her mouth –

'Christine?'

She stopped. 'What is it, monsieur?'

'I was wondering –'

'Monsieur Christian,' said a voice behind him. He turned his head to see Madame Giry, who was holding – to his surprise – what looked like a cup of tea. She smiled sympathetically at him – _it's okay _– and handed the tea to him.

'Oh. Thank you,' Christian said, taking it and truly grateful for the offer – it only he was thirsty. He had a sip – it was without a doubt the best he'd ever had.

'I thought you might want some,' Madame Giry continued. He nodded, offering a small smile. 'It's brilliant – thank you.'

His eyes held the question he needed to ask.

_Is Erik okay?_

Madame Giry gave a small shake of her head and Christian wasn't sure if that meant 'not now' or just 'no'. He felt more guilt wave over him and he set the tea down on the floor, mulling it over.

He needed to stop thinking about the opera ghost. Whenever he did, he felt incredibly happy for a split second then remembered, _oh hey, I screwed up everything. _He didn't feel like eating. He couldn't write. He couldn't really sleep and when he did, his dreams were always enough to make him wake up, feel the bliss happiness for a second and go back to remembering Erik had seen Raoul kiss him.

He frowned; he'd had a lot of questions he wanted to ask Erik. _When did you hear Your Song? How long have you been here? Where did you live as a child? What's under that mask?_

_Why me?_

He looked back at Christine, who was singing once again. She was singing something too familiar – his mind was ringing with questions.

_Why are people afraid of you?_

– _Come what may –_

_Why _aren't _you afraid of me?_

– _Until my dying days –_

_Why are people afraid of you?_

He shook his head and Christine was looking at him expectantly, the rest of the cast clapping, Andre and Firmin yelling out 'Bravo' and Madame Giry watching him anxiously.

'Excellent,' he said absently and everyone clapped and cheered again, running up and hugging a grinning Christine. The writer looked up into the rafters –

No flash of white.

'He won't be there,' Madame Giry said, and he jumped, looking over at her. How had she known –? 'He's at the lake.'

'What –? Is he angry?'

Madame Giry said nothing. Christian felt something inside his chest drop. _No answer is also an answer._

'Of course he would be,' he said quietly.

'It wasn't your fault,' Madame Giry said sharply. 'It was the Vicomte's –'

'Madame,' Christian said, stunned she knew all this, 'how did you –?'

'Christian!'

He looked up and saw Christine smiling at him. 'I must say, you need to cast people other than me!'

He nodded. 'Yeah, I'll do that in a while.' He looked back at Madame Giry. 'As I was saying, how –?'

'It's been a while,' Christine said fairly. The writer resisted the urge to glare at her and knock her head off. 'Okay. Let me think it over again.' He turned back to Madame Giry. 'How –?'

'Monsieur, this is unfair –'

'Well, life isn't _fair _is it?' Christian said, losing his patience for a moment. Christine blinked, taking a step back, her mouth dropping open and forming an oval.

Christian felt guilty again. 'Christine, I – I'm sorry. I just haven't been – sorry, again.' He sheepishly watched the floor. _Do you know what your husband's been doing? _'I have a question for you,' he said, looking up. He was going to tell her. Yes, he was going to tell her –

Her hopeful expression made him lose his confidence. Instead, he lamely asked, 'Why is everyone afraid of the opera ghost?'

He saw Madame Giry look suddenly fearful. Her eyes widened and she gave Christine a look which meant '_don't tell him'._ The soprano missed this look and laughed instead at the writer's innocent expression.

Then she said, 'Seriously, monsieur?'

'What?' the writer asked, looking completely blank.

'You don't know?'

'I – no, no, I don't. Why?' He looked between Christine and Madame Giry. 'What?'

Madame Giry shook her head, hoping Christine would be quiet. The girl laughed again and continued on, unaware of what she was creating. 'Well, it could be because he burned down the opera house two years ago.'

The writer blinked, thinking she was joking for a moment. He shook his head. 'He did –?'

'Crashed the chandelier,' Christine said, still laughing. _He didn't KNOW? _'Broke it purposely, set the place on fire. The mob tried to chase him out –'

'_Mob?'_

'– but they didn't find him. He's good at hiding.'

'So, everyone's afraid because of that?' Christian asked, slightly unable to believe any of this.

Madame Giry nodded quickly, giving Christine a silencing glare, but the girl shook her head. It was all a horrible joke to her. '_That_ and maybe because he killed half a dozen people,' she continued.

Madame Giry felt her heart crack as the writer's jaw dropped open. She would've done _anything _to push that sentence back to Christine's mouth, _anything _to avoid watching this man's idea of Erik crash around his head.

'He – when the chandelier broke –?' _Erik can't be a killer, it was just an accident when the chandelier –_

Once again, Christine giggled. She couldn't believe it. 'Of course not. He murdered all of them. Hanging from the catwalk –' she pointed up '– strangling them, stabbing – he nearly killed Raoul in a swordfight.' She shook her head. '_That's _why we're afraid of him, Christian.'

'But – but he's –' the writer looked around desperately for some reason that Erik couldn't have done this.

'He's a composer? He can sing well? He's a genius? He's _insane_,' Christine said, shaking her head.

Christian felt like someone had just ripped out his chest and stomped on it fairly hard. Or at least, like someone had taken something and not given it back yet – it felt empty.

_Erik – could not be a killer_ –

But he is.

_But he can't be –_

He probably doesn't feel any guilt.

_No, he must have –_

_He's a murderer_.

He felt the rage well up in him and he stared hard at the floor, starting to shake. He'd let the ghost take advantage of him.

_Murderer –_

_This was impossible –_

_Erik is a murderer –_

_No, this couldn't be possible –_

'Christian, are you all right?' Christine's voice flittered in. 'You look – a little unwell.'

_Shut up, I don't want to hear it –_

_He kills people and you let him kiss you. And you liked it._

_Stop it, I don't want to believe it –_

_HE'S A MURDERER –!!!_

Christian stood up and walked off-stage quickly, ignoring Christine's twitter of surprise and Madame Giry's attempts to keep him there – he disappeared quickly, shoving his way through a few sets that had been left there and into the room that led to the staircase that led to...

He could barely see where he was going – he was thinking overtime. He'd been used. That's all it could have been. He'd been used.

God, he was an _idiot! _He ripped open his door and didn't bother to close it carefully; it nearly fell off its hinges. Christian didn't notice; _Erik was a murderer._

He wrenched open the mirror.

'ERIK!!!'

--

Erik knocked back the alcohol in one go. He blinked and looked at the glass decanter – he wasn't exactly sure _what _it was, but hell.

He looked around the room – everything was broken. Oh, well.

He'd been drinking – he wasn't drunk but he'd had enough so that he wasn't as careful to people's reactions and much more determined to getting what he wanted. He had an odd feeling – like something _really _bad had just happened.

After ten minutes of wary waiting, he continued his operation in emptying the decanter when someone suddenly yelled 'ERIK!!!' at the top of their lungs.

The voice travelled down through the place – he stopped with the glass halfway to his lips.

_That_... was Christian.

He skulled the next glass, made a face – _what WAS this?_ – The footsteps echoed through the passages, hard – running. He realised he was close to breaking the glass he was gripping it so hard and resisted throwing it at the wall and watching it shatter, the fate the first two innocent glasses had suffered.

He realised he'd forgotten something; he picked up his mask and set it back on the right side of his face, continuing to watch the mirror.

The glass broke in his grip.

He threw its shattered remains over his shoulder, not bothering to look where they went and picked up the next glass. _If this one breaks –_

The mirror opened and Erik saw Christian glaring at him; not just in anger, but in disbelief and... yep, it looked like betrayal that was written all over his expression. Erik felt a wave of cold gratitude to whoever had made Christian feel like this – the writer himself had made _Erik _feel like that.

He smirked coldly – instead of the playful look there was something predatory in his eyes. 'Oh, you came. Is the dear Vicomte with you?'

Christian didn't falter; all he could see was that the man in front of him had killed people and he'd thought they'd been friends. What did he say? All he could manage was:

'You killed them.'

Inwardly, the ghost felt his stomach jerk painfully – so Christian finally figured that one out. He kept up the mocking shield though – let him suffer.

Erik looked confused. 'Who?' he asked, pouring himself another drink.

The writer snapped, marching straight up to the ghost. 'Oh _shut up_! _You know exactly what I'm talking about, you bastard, you're a murderer_! You're unbelievable.'

Erik stopped smirking and Christian saw again how quickly the ghost could get angry. At that moment, he didn't care he could die, he didn't that he was close enough to Erik that he probably would be dead in a minute – he just wanted to make Erik angrier.

'You killed them.'

Erik twitched. Honestly, he didn't care about it, but Christian saying it with _that _much disbelief in his voice was slightly nerve-wracking. And also the fact Christian knew everything and still was _this close _to him wasn't helping.

'You're a murderer.'

_Stop it._

'You killed them.'

Erik's control broke; he pushed Christian hard, back into the wall, listening to the glass crunch, and held him there. Christian struggled and Erik pulled him forwards slightly then slammed him back into the wall again. He felt the writer tense at the pain and the ghost felt guilt momentarily take over his senses. He glared at the other man who was so intent on avoiding his eyes and breaking whatever connection Erik was trying to build up again.

Christian looked blank, almost like a rag doll of some sort, except for his eyes, the only things that held any life at the moment – and it looked fairly pained.

Rage replaced whatever guilt he'd felt seconds ago; his grip tightened harshly on Christian's shoulders and the writer winced, still avoiding eye contact.

The writer swallowed; he kept his gaze on the portcullis, hoping never to look into the jade eyes that were intent on connecting gazes; if he looked at them, he'd feel worse – not that that really mattered as right now he was feeling disgusted with himself for being this close to a murderer, angry for being used and because the ghost had decided to kiss him _first_ – if he looked at Erik's face, he'd just feel betrayed – somehow Erik wouldn't think what he'd done was wrong, he'd be smirking or something, using him again. He didn't think he'd be able to stand that for one moment.

_Has Erik been drinking? _He could smell alcohol. That made anger spread through his chest like molten hot lava and he glared at the portcullis so hard that if glares could destroy alone, the portcullis would have melted into the cold lake below it.

Erik studied Christian's face. He ignoring him and he wasn't blushing: that wasn't a very good sign, seeing as how close they were. Erik swallowed and looked back at Christian's eyes, refusing to look any lower.

So, of course, he ended looking back at the writer's lips.

_I am _not_ going to give up that easy._

Would it be giving up? He licked his lips. He really should stop looking. He leaned forwards. They were close –

– _only five inches_ –

'You're _drunk_.' The words came out cold and harsh, rasping almost, wishing to be anywhere else but here.

How those lips lied. He smirked. 'I'm _sober,_' he said charmingly, keeping the desperate tone out of his voice. He was so close.

Christian heard the animal growl Erik gave; he prepared himself to look into the ghost's eyes and glared forwards.

The ghost took a second to register this; he was focusing on – other things. When he realised Christian was glaring at him, he connected gazes. He smirked again, playing the charming role. He could do this.

'You're a murderer.'

The words hung in the air; Erik stopped smirking. He froze entirely, his hands losing their grip on the writer's shoulders when Christian pushed him away, walking over to the organ. Erik stood there for a moment, registering what had just happened – Christian had just called him a murderer. He _was_, he understood that – but that appeared to be lower than the spawn of Satan in Christian's eyes.

He whipped around, glaring at the writer's back. That had been too close. Christian didn't need him. He had –

The ghost tensed. 'They didn't obey my orders,' he said, more to himself.

Christian heard it though. He turned around, disbelief marring his face. 'Excuse me? Is that your only reason for killing people? They didn't do what you said?'

Erik glared stonily back. Christian saw the other's jaw clench.

'You bastard,' Christian said, unable to believe this. 'You murdering son of a bitch.'

'Yes, I'm a murderer!' Erik spat, glaring at Christian. The writer stopped. 'Care to repeat it?'

The writer was silent for a moment; the ghost fighting back seemed to stop him. He was back on his feet within a minute.

'This isn't your opera house! You can't attack everyone who does you the slightest wrong.' He looked around at the papers that raked the floor. 'And you're angry I forgave Raoul –'

'But I'm sure that if it was Raoul in my position, you two would already be in bed together?' Erik snarled. Christian stopped and gaped at him; this had gotten out of hand fairly fast.

'Raoul?'

The man behind the mask twitched.

'Raoul de Chagny?' Christian repeated. How did this make sense –?

He stopped.

Erik rolled his eyes. 'Yes, current patron of the Opera Populaire, who you kissed right after that moronic bohemian play.'

Christian stared at him. 'You mean, who kissed me right after you kissed me?' That made him feel odd right after he said that, and he forgot his anger momentarily. In fact, he felt a blush creeping up his neck.

Erik didn't notice.

'I hate him,' Christian managed, still staring at Erik, amazed the ghost was so hung up over it. 'I really can't stand him.'

'Of course you can't,' Erik said, mockingly, walking over to Christian and looking down at him. He walked over to Christian's right shoulder and leaned down so close Christian could feel his breath on his ear. He felt someone in his stomach move. 'That's just why you kissed him back, hm?'

'Don't,' Christian said, glaring at the ground, feeling rooted to the spot. He could hear Erik moving around him. God, how did this switch from the ghost to him? _Erik _was a _murderer_.

'Was he better than me?' Erik asked nonchalantly.

'Stop it.' The familiar guilt of figuring out what the ghost must've felt when Raoul kissed him hit Christian. He swallowed.

'Or was he better with his hands?' Erik continued, and Christian could tell that under all that playfulness, under the mocking, the ghost was furious at the thought of this.

'Stop it!' Christian yelled, looking up at Erik, who stopped walking, hands behind his back, owlishly watching Christian.

'I hate Raoul,' Christian said slowly, so maybe the ghost would _finally _understand it. 'He attacked me and now all he does is grope me! Oh, yes, Erik, I'm completely in love with the Vicomte de Chagny. The _only reason _I kissed back was –' He stopped and took a step away from Erik, who was staring at him blankly. Then the ghost smirked.

'Why?'

Christian rolled his eyes, taking another step back. Erik stepped with him.

The ghost couldn't believe this. Christian hated Raoul. For some reason, that didn't sound like something you would say about your lover.

Unless the writer was lying. Erik noticed Christian avoiding his eyes again. Was he lying? If he was...

Christian felt the ghost move; he was only inches away now. He knew he was blushing and didn't know exactly what to do; he was angry. He _was _angry. Just Erik's presence was clouding up him mind. He kept his eyes on the ground, on the debris of the ghost's home. _Please go away, _Christian thought. _I really don't need this._

Erik could see the blush creeping up the writer's neck. He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. If Christian was lying...

But then again, even if Christian _wasn't _lying, he was still angry. Though grudgingly, Erik could understand that. He _was _a murderer, he'd killed numerous people, but he would've done _anything _to make sure Christian had never figured that out.

'Don't,' Christian said, glaring at him.

'_You're _the one who came down here, Christian,' Erik said triumphantly.

The writer cursed inwardly; yes, he had come down here, but for a different reason, one that was slipping away with every step that brought Erik closer.

Christian took another step back and bumped into a wall. He looked back at it, avoiding Erik's eyes as the ghost stepped forwards again. The ghost was so close Christian could feel his breath on his jaw line. He swallowed hard.

'The only reason was what, Christian?' Erik continued, and the writer could just picture him smirking. He kept one side of his face pressed up against the wall, even though the cold was biting into his skin. He was not going to say anything else.

'The only reason was _what_, Christian?' Erik repeated loudly, grinning.

'Please don't,' the writer breathed.

Erik stopped; the writer seemed close to some kind of mental breakdown.

'I'm angry at you, damn it,' Christian muttered.

'Because I'm a murderer.'

'_Yes_,' Christian snapped, just stopping himself from thanking Erik for reminding him.

He shivered as Erik took a few steps back, leaving him against the cold wall alone; he looked at the ghost, confused. The ghost gestured to the mirror that Christian had come through. 'Fine. Yell at me and go.'

Christian frowned. He hadn't heard that right. Also, he felt a little annoyed that the sudden body heat was gone. 'What?'

Erik clenched his hands. 'Just leave.'

This wasn't really registering with Christian. 'I can go?'

Erik glared at him. _Will you just leave and stop torturing me?! _'Yes.'

'And you'll leave me alone?'

Erik gritted his teeth and nodded.

The writer stared at him in disbelief. 'Are you – what? Hold on –' Christian shook his head. 'You're just going to let me go. Like that.'

'Would you prefer if I didn't?' Erik asked sarcastically.

Christian stared back at the green eyes, which held some kind of mocking anger. _Yes_, he thought. The eyes widened.

Oh – he'd said that out loud. Let the defences down for _one second –_

'What I – _meant _to say was –'

He was cut off abruptly when Erik suddenly was back, looking down at him.

Christian cleared his throat, looking back at the ground. 'Look, I'm trying to be angry with you and you're not helping,' he said loudly, praying somehow that would make Erik go away. He felt a hand under his chin, tilting it up. He looked up at the ghost, was only really about four inches taller but was giving the impression of being a lot taller.

Erik leaned forwards, pressing his lips to the younger man's, closing his eyes. He wanted to keep them open but he had a feeling that if he did he would be breaking some kind of rules.

Christian tilted his head and did the only thing that made sense; he kissed the ghost back. He felt fingers running through his hair and was pressed back harder against the wall – he didn't complain.

The ghost pulled back, unable to contain a grin; Christian looked positively dazed with his hair mussed and his lips swollen. What was in front of him was completely and utterly his. The writer swallowed, finally looking Erik straight in the eye. There was a moment where they just stared at each other, waiting for some kind of reaction. Then Christian licked his lips.

That was all Erik needed; he closed the distance between them, holding onto Christian's shoulders. He opened his mouth, licking Christian's lower lip and biting it lightly. He was rewarded when Christian opened his mouth, resting his hands on Erik's waist. The ghost was incredibly warm – _he _was incredibly warm and his stomach was fluttering and he was currently losing the ability to think normally as the blood rushed south and that Erik tasted _slightly _like alcohol and could he get drunk from that?

He felt like that could be true as Erik's hands moved a little lower.

The ghost felt Christian moan into his mouth – he pulled back and smirked at the writer, who was blushing furiously. 'Sorry, what was that?' he asked, frowning mockingly.

Christian responded by kissing him again. Erik took his hands off the writer's chest and moved down to his hips. The writer moaned again and Erik trailed kisses along his jaw line.

Christian swallowed, his eyes closed, praying this wasn't just some kind of nightmarish dream, or worse, this was Raoul. He opened his eyes and swallowed down another moan as Erik licked down his neck, concentrating on the base of his neck and shoulder, nipping and sucking. He jolted as a new wave of arousal washed over him – what was worse, he was sure Erik knew –

The ghost _did _know – he couldn't help but bite suddenly hard into Christian's shoulder, just to make the writer squirm under him. He was half-straddling the man against a wall, enjoying every second of it. He moved his hands back up to Christian's shirt, undoing the first button, slowly, then the next two. He could feel and hear the writer half-sigh-half-growl. He smirked against the smooth pale skin, trailing down Christian's collar bone. He ground his hips against the writer's, feeling the much louder moan affect him more than it should.

He had to be in control of this.

Christian was up against a wall, practically being tortured, being teased by this man. He wished Erik would pay attention to everything lower than his belly button.

He watched, breathing hard, as Erik glanced down pointedly at the bulge in his trousers. The ghost smirked. 'Enjoying this, are we?'

If he could answer, he would say, 'What do you think?'

Erik, however, that tease, was only paying attention to belly button and up. Now that his shirt was gone – how Erik had done that, he didn't know – he could feel the freezing wall biting at him but could he care less –?

The ghost took Christian's earlobe between his teeth. He loved that he was making Christian feel like this. He also loved that Christian looked like he was about to lose his mind from everything the ghost was doing. It made him feel fairly happy Christian was enjoying it too; he had a brief flash of what Christian had looked like when he entered the Opera Populaire. This only fuelling his desire, he blew on Christian's ear and the writer shivered.

Erik closed his eyes, visualising skin-on-skin contact with the writer, how much he wanted that. But even though he was this far on, his fairly paranoid mind was still wondering if Christian really wanted this. He groaned inwardly when he figured out how he could test it. It would involve lying around alone for an incredibly long amount of time, all of that time filled with how much he wanted to kill himself for doing this and remembering just how Christian was reacting, but he needed to try this.

Christian felt Erik trying to move them – he let it happen – _please tell me we're going to a bed_ – but he currently lost his mind as someone moved their hand lower than his waist, but it was gone in a second, concentrating on his chest again, fingering sensitive skin.

So he didn't notice how long it was taking – or how cold it was – or how dark – all he was concerned with was that this man really was an artist.

But then he was on a bed!

He looked at Erik. His bed. Hold on.

Erik smirked at him, amused at Christian's disappointed expression. He leaned forwards again, blew on Christian's ear and, for good measure, ran a finger down the writer's belly line.

Christian gasped and the mirror closed. Erik was gone.

He lay on the bed, feeling somewhat confused and annoyed. Well. Erik had definitely had the upper hand in that. Yep, he'd tried _real _hard to stop that happening.

He gritted his teeth, more annoyed at himself than Erik. He could barely think, let alone notice that it was the middle of the day, barely notice that he could hear people walking around outside his door, down the hallways and stairs outside.

Swallowing, he looked down.

Oh.

He let his head fall back against the pillow, grimacing. Well, that hadn't happened since Satine.


	9. Chapter 9

**Currently listening to the Beatles "With a Little Help from My Friends". Hope you like the chapter – amazingly weird! :)**

_**Yeah, gonna try with a little help from my friends! **_

**Chapter Nine**

Christian sat on the front steps of the Opera Populaire, watching the carriages drag by, the people talking to each other, the odd children here and there that enjoyed throwing stones and dirt at each other.

If he was outside, he didn't have to think about dealing with Raoul. He didn't have to be scrutinised by a suspicious Madame Giry. And he didn't have to be half-nervous-half-hopeful (-really-more-hopeful-but-wouldn't-admit-it) of finding Erik.

He put his head in his hands. _If Satine could see me now, _he thought irritably.

He'd at least _tried _to stop what happened yesterday afternoon, right? Hadn't he? He thought about it, had to stop thinking about it because it was making his stomach flutter non-stop and...

He looked up. The sky was getting dark. He'd spent the entire avoiding Raoul _(fairly easy)_, watching behind stage, waiting for some kind of flitter of white to appear in the darkness. It didn't come and he had a feeling Erik was making sure to avoid him.

Madame Giry acted like she knew. He sighed. Maybe she did. Brilliant. Because he just needed someone else to realise that he was going completely crazy at the idea of seeing Erik again.

He stood up, watching the sun set behind the buildings. Okay, now he had to go find Erik –

Or would that be just what the ghost wanted?

Christian rolled his eyes when he realised he was _considering_ giving Erik exactly what he wanted. He wasn't giving up that easy. He looked at the opera house doors and grinned.

--

Erik was close to gouging his own eyes out.

_What the hell did I do?_

Of course, when he'd wondered whether to go see Christian, the part of his mind that told him _no, other way around_, he listened to. Not the whole rest of him, which was positively screaming at him to go find Christian and continue on.

He growled and threw the empty decanter across the room, watching it shatter. He blinked at the glass on the ground and rolled his eyes; he _had _to stop breaking everything. He picked up the glass on the table. Well, that was useless.

He put it back down, deciding he'd use it for another time.

It was still fairly early in the evening; Christian wouldn't be back at his room yet. He could at _least_...

Erik turned around, picked up the glass and hurled it at the wall across the lake. It hit the stone two feet away from the portcullis and the remains splashed into the water.

_Stop thinking about it, _he warned himself, _the closest thing at the moment is the table._

--

Christian was occupying himself as much as he could behind stage – everyone had left, it was just him.

_If you have any idea where I am, please show up, _he thought hard, trying to send the ghost some kind of message. Seven minutes later, still standing there, he decided there must have been some delay in thought-messaging.

Suddenly two hands fell on his shoulders and pulled him back; someone was nuzzling his neck. The contact felt all wrong though – Christian struggled and broke free before the hands sunk lower.

He whipped around, backing away. 'Vicomte de Chagny.'

Raoul smirked. 'We're on first-name terms, I'm sure.'

'No,' Christian said, chuckling, despite the anger welling up in him. 'We're _really _not.'

Raoul grinned playfully. 'Well,' he said, stepping closer and removing his jacket, 'what do I have to do then?'

'Leave, probably,' Christian said, taking a quick sidestep and walking past the Vicomte – he had no intention to stay here any longer. He heard Raoul sigh, turn around and say, 'You kissed me back, monsieur.'

'Yes, and I also told you to stay away from me,' Christian snapped, turning around. Why would the Vicomte leave him _alone_? He half-wished Erik would appear –

He shook his head – wrong time to think about Erik. That led to him thinking about yesterday afternoon and then he wouldn't be able to convince Raoul he was thinking of something else. And how could he explain it anyway? _No, no, I'm thinking about the Opera Ghost. _God, this was _stupid_.

Raoul stepped forwards again and the writer took two steps back, towards the door that would lead him to the stairs, up to his room. Did he have a bolt on that door? He had a sudden, odd image of Erik appearing as soon as he locked the door. He shook his head; _really bad time._

'Christian, I assure you, you _really _kissed back.'

'I was thinking of someone else,' Christian said loudly, exasperatedly, angrily, _just leave me alone, if this will get you off my back –_ he froze as the words hung in the air. Something switched in Raoul's eyes – something that reminded Christian of the patron's attitude on the night he met Erik face-to-face.

'Some_thing_,' he said quickly, looking down. 'I was – thinking of some_thing _else.'

He didn't feel a single bit of pity for Raoul. He just felt awkward saying it out loud – there was Satine, the woman he had loved, who was dead, who could probably hear all of this now – and there was a possibility Erik could be here, listening.

_If you're here, help me._ He tried using thought-messaging again.

'Something else?' Raoul echoed hollowly.

'I had a lot on my mind,' Christian said through gritted teeth. And that was true – he'd just been kissed by an opera ghost. That was something that surely didn't happen every day.

'Who is it? Is it Christine?'

'No,' said the writer, rolling his eyes. 'Shouldn't you be feeling bad as she's _your _wife?'

'Who were you thinking about?' Raoul ordered, reaching out to grab Christian's arm – the writer moved out of the way, not wanting to start another fight.

'For the love of God, leave me alone,' Christian pleaded, turning to the doors and running through, past the hallways that led to the entrance hall, past –

Raoul was running after him.

He made it to the stairs, skipping three stairs at a time, nearly tripping over at one point. _Someone please show up._

'_Christian_.'

The Vicomte sounded savage, a rabid dog. The writer tried to jump four steps in a wild attempt to get to his room and tripped, falling hard on the stairs. He gasped at the one that seemed to hit him right in-between his ribs – _that's going to bruise_ – Someone flipped him over and leaned down to his right ear. He closed his eyes, feeling long hair on his face – and smelled enough alcohol to make him gag. 'Tell me who.'

'Get off me!' Christian yelled, pushing the Vicomte hard. All he felt was Raoul's weight disappear, leaving him free to scramble up and run to his room, slamming the door hard and fumbling with the bolt, finally managed to lock it despite his shaking hands. He fell back on the bed, breathing hard and feeling disgusted at what Raoul had done. He hoped that the Vicomte had broken something; that he'd fallen down all the stairs and was now an unconscious heap that could barely breathe. Even though he knew that was unlikely, he still hoped for it. He put his hands over his eyes. _Please, let him be dead_, he thought for a second. _Let him leave me alone. _

He felt afraid to even open the door.

And he hadn't noticed the white mask which, now that the writer was back in his room, was glaring down at a crumpled man at the bottom of a staircase.

--

After at least three hours, he calmed down and tried to get some sleep. His eyes were closed, but his mind was still racing – not about Raoul – he couldn't care less about Raoul – he'd better have a good hangover tomorrow, he would, and he'd leave him alone – but about Erik. Christian was still wondering how the ghost had heard 'You Song', where he came from, where he lived as a child, whether he'd been at the opera his entire life, was he really entirely sure that he wanted the writer, and what was behind his mask?

Probably nothing, he contemplated. Maybe it's just for some kind of theatrical thing.

He vaguely heard something sliding open and tried not to tense. Instead, he pretended to be asleep still, rolling over onto his back and breathing slowly in and out, more relaxed breathing, as people did when they were asleep.

Someone was unbuttoning his shirt; he swallowed hard, trying to control his quickening breathing – _be asleep _–

It was taking a long time for his shirt to be unbuttoned. He waited, impatiently in his brain, peaceful on the exterior. Whoever was undoing his shirt finally finished and pulled it open, leaving it on his arms but fully exposing his chest. Nothing happened for a moment and Christian wondered if the person was gone. Then someone whispered 'I know you're awake.' It was Erik's voice.

He pretended to frown in his sleep. He practically could _hear _the ghost smirking. His neck was bitten fairly hard and he yelped – to his surprise, not in pain.

He opened his eyes and looked at Erik, who grinned at him. His jaw dropped open – _Raoul? _

The Vicomte smirked at Christian, running his tongue down the writer's neck. 'You're terrible at pretending.'

--

Christian sat up; breathing hard, hand on his neck. He wiped it hard, even though it had just been a dream, he could still feel it, like a spider running across his neck.

That had been a first-class nightmare if he ever had one. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm down. _Nothing _had been good about that dream; he felt sick and wished Raoul hadn't made contact with him. He wondered what time it was and why it wasn't pitch black and saw a small burning candle. He blinked at it; he'd lit that at least an hour ago. It was nearly dead, flickering shadows on the walls. He looked over at the mirror and jumped.

Erik winced, leaning against the mirror. Christian cursed himself for taking his shirt off again. He blushed, looking at the bolted door. 'Sorry.'

'What were you dreaming about?' Erik asked quietly, still looking at the floor.

Christian shook his head. 'Don't worry about it. It – was just a bad dream.'

The ghost went quiet again. Christian wondered why he was being so awkward. Then –

'You said my name.'

Christian looked back at Erik, who was looking down at the floor intently and understood suddenly. 'You weren't the bad part of it,' he said firmly. The ghost looked back up and his jaw tightened. 'Who was?' Erik asked.

'Raoul,' Christian said bitterly, falling back down. He didn't notice the momentary fury that appeared in Erik's eyes.

'What did he do to you?' he growled.

'In the dream?' How did Christian explain that to the ghost? Basically, violation? That was all it ever was with Raoul.

He opened his mouth to say that when Erik said, 'No, a few hours ago. What did he do to you?'

Christian blinked. Erik was glaring at him, but somehow not at _him_ – he was just angry at Raoul. 'Why didn't you help if you were there?' he asked, frowning.

'I just heard talking and running. I got there when you were slamming your door.' He tensed visibly. 'A little late, I'm guessing?'

'Perhaps,' Christian replied, sitting back up and swinging around to face Erik. 'Thanks for trying.' He stopped suddenly as how the scenario might have carried out with just Erik and Raoul in the room. 'You didn't – Raoul –?'

Erik glared at him.

'Well...'

'No, I didn't kill him,' Erik said brightly, still glaring at him.

'Oh.'

Erik raised an eyebrow. 'Oh?'

'I mean, well... oh.' He didn't know how to react to that; it meant that he still had trouble to deal with then, but at least _Erik _hadn't killedhim. 'Well, thanks,' he said lamely.

'What makes you think I was doing it for you?' Erik crossed his arms, keeping one eyebrow raised. Christian hid his smile. Instead, he said seriously, 'Well, what did you do to him?'

He could see the ghost thinking about the best way to answer this question. Finally, Erik shrugged nonchalantly. 'You'll see.'

Christian swallowed and looked at the small candle that was enabling light in the room – the one he had forgotten all about. 'That doesn't sound very good, Erik.'

'_You_,' Erik said, suddenly in front of him, leaning forwards, placing his hands on either side of Christian's legs, 'can't blame me.'

Christian leaned back a little. _This is a trap_. Or was it? In fact, Erik didn't seem to notice this was making him uncomfortable. 'Oh and why not?' he asked, trying to speak calmly, keeping his eyes off Erik's lips and staring into his eyes. He looked away when he saw how angry the ghost really was.

'Because I can't guarantee what I'll do if he comes near you again.'

Christian swallowed. 'What?' That sounded protective. He felt a rush of gratitude to Erik but something at the back of his mind said, _So why couldn't you come quicker?_ He felt guilty for even thinking that; the ghost had already told him he'd heard them talking and –

Oh – God.

'You heard us talking,' Christian repeated slowly, trying to sound calm. However, it appeared Erik already knew what he was thinking about. He smirked, confirming Christian's beliefs. The writer groaned and fell back on the bed, putting his hands over his face. 'I can_not_ believe you –'

'Who were you thinking about?' Erik asked loudly, still smirking at him, moving so that he could sit on the bed and watching Christian amusedly.

'– I mean, you're about ready to kill Raoul, and the _one thing _you pick up in the conversation –'

'That doesn't sound like the answer I wanted.'

'You,' Christian said, taking his hands away from his face, 'are unbelievable.'

The ghost continued to smirk down at him.

'I'm not answering that question,' he said finally, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch anything. He could tell Erik was still waiting, still smirking.

'Fine,' Christian said, sitting up. The ghost had a moment to look triumphant and the writer continued, 'Tell me why you did that yesterday afternoon.'

Erik continued smirking. 'That's a little unfair,' he said, leaning closer, glancing at Christian's lips.

'Hardly,' the writer said indignantly, shuffling back a little. It wasn't that he didn't want that – it was just he wanted to pin Erik with a question for once, to see whatever tactic the ghost might use to get out of it.

The ghost wasn't giving up smirking. 'I mean, it's unfair because I'm sure you know the answer to it better than I do.'

Christian blushed: _damn him. _He shook his head. 'No – I don't. Because when I first met you, you really had no interest in me. And then –'

He stopped. 'How do you know "Your Song"?'

Erik blinked, looking innocently confused – which meant he knew exactly what Christian was talking about. 'What?'

'_And you can tell everybody that this is your song _– that one.'

'What about it?'

'You knew it; I've heard you singing it,' Christian insisted. 'Come on, I tell you heaps of things –'

'After at least ten minutes of stalling,' the ghost replied.

'Well, ten minutes of stalling is yours then. You've barely told me anything.'

Erik rolled his eyes. 'This is stupid, Christian,' he said warningly.

'No,' Christian said, grinning – this was going somewhere. 'Ten minutes starting now.'

The ghost crossed his arms and glared at Christian, who was hit by a brilliant idea at that moment. 'Oh, come on, you know my answer already, don't you?' he said charmingly, leaning over to Erik, just as the ghost had done a few moments ago. He mentally yelled in triumph when Erik leaned back just a little, no longer angry or amused – just wary and, if he could see correctly, avoiding looking any lower than Christian's eyes. Christian changed his mind about putting his shirt back on. 'Well, do you?' he continued.

Erik licked his lips. Christian was up to something and he wasn't going to let it work. He felt Christian shuffle forwards, half on him, and he leaned back further, onto his elbows. He just wished Christian would stop licking his lips or, even better, put a shirt on. 'Maybe,' he said warily, trying not to realise that Christian was now practically straddling him. He let himself lie on his back, trying to think – it wasn't really working...

'Just tell me,' Christian said, unbuttoning the ghost's shirt. Erik shut his eyes, putting his head back. Okay, this was happening for some reason he couldn't actually remember... he was supposed to say something? His shirt was finally open but Christian just left his arms in the sleeves.

'Shutting your eyes doesn't mean I'm gone,' he heard Christian say, incredibly close to his ear. He felt Christian's fairly light weight on him, skin against skin. The ghost jolted. He heard the writer chuckle. 'Are you going to tell me?'

_Yes! No! What's the correct answer?_

'When you were with Satine – I heard it, you were singing it to her – and...'

He felt Christian stop suddenly and sit up. Erik's eyes snapped open and he cursed himself; why did he mention Satine? He could have said something such as 'I was at the Moulin Rouge, heard you by chance, you were _really _good'.

Christian was watching him, blue eyes focused. 'You were there?'

Erik was tempted to ask Christian to let him up; one, so he could feel a little less out of control and two, so he could think of a good answer to that. He settled for 'Yes.'

'And why?'

Erik tried to sit up but Christian suddenly put both hands on the ghost's shoulders, forcing him to stay down. Erik glared at Christian, who was still looking stern. 'You were at Spectacular, Spectacular.'

He knew it, it wasn't a question, but he still wanted the ghost to show some kind of answer. He took Erik's glaring at the ceiling for a 'yes'.

'So you were there – because you heard me singing to Satine?'

'You know,' Erik said, 'when you put it that way, it sounds a lot less –'

'You were there because of that?' Christian continued, interrupting the ghost, who rolled his eyes and said quietly, 'Yes.'

'So you knew me long before I knew you?'

Erik was still glaring firmly at the ceiling.

Christian laughed and the candle went out, leaving them in pitch blackness.

'Shit,' the writer said, realising he couldn't see anything at all. He waved a hand in front of his face. He tried the other one. It was like nothing even existed. Maybe this was what space was like.

'Can't see anything?'

Christian jumped and realised Erik was sitting up and sounding amused; _let the world make sense again_. He blushed as he realised what position he'd put them into while trying to get that confession out of Erik. He had no recollection of that and no real intention of _doing _that. He moved off the ghost quickly. 'Can you?' he asked defensively.

'Maybe,' said the ghost slyly.

Christian tensed; to take his mind off that, he tested if he could see anything again.

'Stop waving your hand in front of your face,' Erik said impatiently, not realising this was an answer as well. Christian froze; this had suddenly gotten a lot scarier, as Erik now had an incredibly good advantage. He put his arms down by his side, watching the darkness blindly; how long would it take for his eyes to adjust to the dark –?

The events of last afternoon rushed through his head and he cleared his throat. He could hear Erik breathing and suddenly lips were pressed to his quickly, as if the ghost was telling him exactly how well he could see in the dark.

'Um,' Christian said, stomach fluttering. 'I don't actually –'

He heard rustling indicating the ghost was putting his shirt back on. Christian swore loudly in his mind until he felt Erik handing him the shirt he'd been wearing earlier. He was confused – Erik was going, why did he need his shirt? 'It's cold,' Erik explained.

Christian still didn't understand; he felt pretty warm, to tell the truth; he stared blankly at the darkness, thanking God he wasn't blind.

He heard an impatient sigh and a hand grab his arm. He was dragged to his feet, still wondering what the hell was going on, and –

The mirror was slid open and he was being pulled through it; now he was staring at more darkness._ Brilliant,_ he thought brightly. _And it actually is really cold._

He half pulled on his shirt in the dark, half let himself be pulled down the passageways. It seemed to take a while, but he didn't mind.

He was thinking hard to pass the time. Erik had been at the Moulin Rouge somehow (he shivered as the thought of reasons why Erik could have been at the Moulin Rouge) and he'd managed, by some glimpse of fate, to hear him singing to Satine.

He could vaguely see Erik's outline walking in front of him. He swallowed. He wanted to know everything about the ghost, really, he did. The one question Erik had told him to avoid asking kept on biting at his mind; the mask - the crude porcelain mask that covered most of the right side of his face. Why was it there?

_Masks are for hiding things._

So what was Erik hiding? He still felt a little amazed that Erik had come to Spectacular, Spectacular just because he heard the writer singing 'Your Song'. He felt himself blushing even though there was no reason _to _blush.

Erik could feel tell Christian wasn't paying attention to anything at the moment; he himself was wondering if he should bring Christian by the lake next time. It wasn't anything brilliant, but he might be bored with the whole 'morbid, dark passages' thing. Erik gripped Christian's arm a little tighter.

The writer realised suddenly that the ghost was opening the mirror, which seemed to let in a rush of freezing air. Erik let go of his arm, walking through the mirror and Christian hurriedly pulled his other arm through a shirt sleeve – buttoning it up, he followed the ghost. He stopped and looked around; the place was still covered in wreckage. Guilt clenched his insides with a cold hand, and he wondered whether he blame Raoul for this or himself.

Erik looked over at Christian, who was staring out at the portcullis. 'Do you ever open that thing?' he asked after a minute, looking at the ghost.

'Why? Want to try coming down that way?' Erik asked, arching an eyebrow.

'No,' Christian said, shrugging. 'I –'

'It's a lot harder than the mirror passage,' the ghost continued, smirking, 'so I suggest you continue with that. Also, you'll be fairly drenched by the end of it.' He tilted his head thoughtfully. 'Or would you prefer that?'

The writer crossed his arms. 'Thanks for that small part of sanity I'll never get back,' he said, rolling his eyes. Erik smirked, feeling an urge for revenge.

Christian felt Erik grab his wrist and he was pulled forwards again; not harshly but not weakly. He was suddenly pushed up against a wall, staring Erik straight in the face. He realised what was happening and shut his eyes. 'This is unfair.'

'And what _you_ just did to _me_ a few minutes ago was unfair.' The ghost sounded close.

'You _know _already what my answer is. This is useless.'

'I want to hear you say it.'

'Why?' Christian asked, opening one eye and realising, yes, Erik was barely four inches away from him, pinning the writer's hands at his side. 'Just so you can torture me more?'

'If you insist,' the ghost smirked and Christian managed a hasty 'Hold on' before Erik could do anything more. The writer rolled his eyes and said, 'Fine. I was thinking of someone else and it was you. Are you happy now?' He closed his eyes, not wanting to see Erik smirking at the fact he was blushing.

'Ecstatic.'

After a minute, Christian realised the ghost was not going to let go of him. He cleared his throat, eyes still closed. 'Okay, you had your moment. Can you let me go now?' he asked, struggling.

'Well, well, monsieur, that still seems unfair. That could hardly be compared to anything you did to me.' Why did Erik have to sound so bloody charming?

'Think of it – as a payback from yesterday,' Christian said, smiling at Erik, wishing the ghost would move back. He saw Erik considering this and felt relieved; he'd won this. Then a chill ran up his spine – not in fear – when Erik shook his head disapprovingly. '_Yesterday _doesn't count,' he said, switching their positions and pushing Christian hard; he expected to land on cold hard floor, but ended up in a bed. He realised he'd woken up in this bed when he had first met the opera ghost. He looked at Erik, heart hammering. The ghost crossed his arms, tilted his head and grinned predatorily at the writer. '_Think of it_ – as a rematch,' he said, ignoring Christian's widening eyes and taking off his shirt.

--

Christine screamed when she saw the crumpled body at the bottom of the staircase – Meg had been with her and her eyes had expanded, wide with horror. Christine ran to her husband, getting on her knees and turning him onto his back.

'_Raoul! _Raoul, are you okay?!' She didn't have to listen to his heart – she could see he was breathing, with no real difficulty – just unconscious with the odd bruises here and there. She burst into tears. 'Raoul, Raoul, Raoul.' She looked at Meg, who was standing with her hands clasped over her mouth. Her eyes travelled from Raoul's face to Christine.

'Get help, Meg! Please!'

The Giry girl needed no more telling. She turned and ran; the image of a crumpled Raoul and tearful Christine burnt into her mind. She turned into the backstage and saw –

'Mother!'

Madame Giry took one look at her frightened daughter and her eyes widened. 'What is it?' she asked, hurrying over to Meg.

'Christine – she – Raoul –'

'Where are they?'

Meg turned and ran back to the staircase, her mother following. By now, people who had been awakened by Christine's scream were appearing, some at the top of the staircase.

'Good God!' gasped Andre. Madame Giry stared down at the Vicomte. She looked up the staircase, as if Erik would still be there – but it was very early in the morning now, how long had Raoul been here –

'Christine, why didn't you go looking for Raoul earlier?' she asked the tearful soprano.

The girl looked at her with red eyes. 'He said he'd be out – _hic _– for the night and I – I thought – oh _Raoul_ –'

'Is he alive?'

'Yes.' Christine nodded frantically. 'Yes, yes, yes.'

'He's just unconscious?'

Christine hiccupped and nodded. Madame Giry looked down at Raoul, who seemed almost fine. She looked at the amount of people gathered around her and at the top of the stairs. She felt fear run through her.

'Where's Christian?'

She knew there would be no answer; everyone was too busy staring at Raoul.

--

At that moment, the writer woke up again. It was dark and he could hear something that sounded like water dripping. He sat up, wondered where he was for a moment and –

He stopped, head slowly swivelling to the breathing person next to him.

His jaw dropped; the ghost was asleep. His eyes adjusting to the dark, he realised how incredibly awkward he was feeling; he looked everywhere else that he could, ignoring the sleeping body beside him. _Get out of here_, he thought, even though some small part of his mind piped up: _he won't know what happened and then you'll feel bad and he'll get confused and then you'll both get angry and oh my God my shoulder feels like something attacked it_ –

He blushed. Something _had_.

He could see the lake now and the portcullis barring the entrance (or exit, really depended). He could tell where the mirror was if he wanted to go now. But the small part of his mind which wasn't overflowing with awkwardness was right. He sighed and listened to the deep breathing. Without really thinking about it, he turned his head.

Sure enough, Erik was lying on his back, breathing in and out slowly, and one hand resting on his stomach.

Christian quietly lay on his side, staring at the ghost.

There was something about watching a paranoid man this relaxed. Christian had never seen Erik this relaxed before – let alone asleep before – he was sure the ghost had _watched him_ sleep, as there was that mirror in his room and he'd managed to fall asleep minutes after he'd made a deal with Erik on their first encounter.

Their first face-to-face encounter, he corrected himself.

He noted with some small amusement Erik was still wearing the mask. He felt temptation well up in him. _If I want to –_

_That would mean taking advantage of Erik._

_And the ghost will never know –_

_I've never seen him this relaxed._

_Well, he's asleep. Everyone's relaxed when they sleep, right?_

Christian shut his eyes hard, willing the thoughts to go away. He opened his eyes again. He really could just remove the mask quickly and the ghost wouldn't know; he wouldn't ask anymore and Erik would feel a little more relaxed, right?

'Shut up,' he whispered angrily.

He was surprised that Erik tensed in his sleep – _Why should I be surprised, _he thought bitterly – the ghost twitched and remained tense.

The writer awkwardly rolled onto his other side, staring at the darkness, mentally slapping himself. _I'm an idiot_, he thought harshly, glaring at what appeared to be the wall. Maybe he should just leave.

He froze when he heard Erik moving; was the ghost awake? He shut his eyes quickly, changing his breathing, straining his ears for anything indicating Erik was up and alert.

There was the rustle of movement again and he felt the ghost's arm wrap protectively over him. He nearly laughed when he realised Erik was asleep while doing this.

_Mask_, said a brief voice in his head and he fell asleep again.

**-- **


	10. Chapter 10

**Short chapter, what the hell. **

**Chapter Ten**

When he woke up later however, he had no recollection of any thoughts he'd had in the small hours of the morning; history repeated itself as he wondered where he was again; this time, he knew the ghost was there, could hear him breathing, but it barely connected anything for some reason.

He wondered if it was morning or not, as it was still dark, but they were under the Opera Populaire, so he didn't really think that could define anything. He stood up, pulled on his shirt which he found on the floor, a white heap in dark room, pulled it on and walked out to where the lake was.

The lake was a fairly greenish dark mass in the darkness, sloshing against the walls. As Christian stared down at it, he wondered why his shoulder was dully aching. He remembered for the second time that morning and nearly laughed. Also, he had a goddamn bruise on his side from falling on the staircase –

Oh, God. He had to _be _in the opera house today. If he was gone, people would notice, even though no one really knew his name. He shivered. Too many people to deal with – Raoul, Christine, Carlotta, Firmin and Andre, Madame Giry –

He groaned quietly. Madame Giry; she'd realise something had happened in minutes, even if all he said to her today was 'hello'. She was like that. She could detect things.

This was something he _didn't _need to be detected. First of all, she'd probably to give him a lecture or something, and then she'd find Erik, probably give him a lecture as well and –

Now he was just rambling in his own head. He sighed. Maybe he should go pretend to be the Moulin Rouge Ghost.

Just as he was deciding whether that was ridiculous or actually a really good idea, he was picked up and thrown over someone's shoulder.

'And where do you think you're going?'

He managed a half-startled, half angry 'Erik! Put me down!' The ghost seemed to think about it. 'Well, I _would_, it's just I can't seem to _find _anywhere...'

'This isn't funny,' Christian snapped and the ghost chuckled. 'Put me down,' he added warningly.

'You know, I don't think I will,' Erik said, trying to sound serious.

'Erik!'

'All right – if you insist.'

Christian realised he'd just been moved across the entire room in the semi-darkness and was suddenly thrown down on the bed again. Crossing his arms, he glared up at Erik, who grinned down at him, completely unfazed by his glaring.

'I trust you're angry with me?'

'Depends,' Christian said stonily, keeping the glare.

'Right then,' Erik replied, falling onto the bed and landing next to the writer, who continued to glare at him. 'So what do I have to do to become worthy in your eyes?'

'Oh, shut up,' Christian muttered, successful in keeping a straight face as he kept his arms crossed.

'What?' Erik asked, sitting up and acting serious. 'Writers enjoy that kind of dramatic talk, right?'

Now Christian really was _fighting _not to laugh. He managed to keep an angry expression still, even though it seemed Erik already knew he was trying not to laugh. 'Of course, because you've _always_ tried to win me over with words,' he said sarcastically, arching an eyebrow at the ghost.

'Well, I could go back to the old way of winning you over,' Erik said, still grinning. Christian didn't think he'd ever seen the ghost this happy. Then again, he himself hadn't been this happy for a long time.

'Was that what last night was? Well, congratulations, I think you successfully ripped my shoulder off,' Christian continued, nodding to his shoulder and pulling his shirt collar so the ghost might catch a glimpse of the large bruise.

'Then I probably should get started on the other one,' Erik said, smirking at him and helpfully unbuttoning the writer's shirt.

--

Christine stared at Raoul, who was slowly waking up. He'd been placed in her bed, in her room, but it all seemed unfamiliar. This was Raoul. What had happened to him?

The Vicomte opened his eyes and smiled at Christine. 'Morning,' he croaked and winced suddenly, putting a hand to his head. 'What – did something happen? I feel like I've been hit in the head by a –'

'It was the Phantom, Raoul,' said Christine, looking down at her husband. 'You were behind stage last night – and he –'

Raoul's eyes widened with sudden realisation – realisation she took to mean he remembered being behind stage and being chased. 'Oh, Raoul,' she managed, nearly falling into tears.

He shook his head, reaching out to grab her hand. 'Christine, don't worry. It's – it's okay.' She didn't see the guilty tinge in his eyes.

She sighed and looked back up at him again. He looked unfocused, but she didn't realise. 'Would you like me to go see Erik?'

'What?' She blinked – he _had _been deep in thought.

'I can go see Erik now – ask him why?'

'Oh – _no_, Christine,' Raoul said hastily, shaking his head. 'I – he – he'd probably rip your arms off or something.'

'Nonsense, Raoul. He wouldn't.' She didn't know why he was being so nervous or why he kept looking at the mirror. Oh, she shouldn't be so stupid – he was scared.

She put her hand on his forehead. 'Poor you,' she said, leaning down and kissing him lightly.

'Don't go see Erik,' the Vicomte managed, barely choking it out.

She pulled away, looking stern. 'I'd like to find out why he did this to my husband.'

'Don't!'

'Raoul!'

'Christine, I'm _concerned_. I thought we were friends, yet look what he did to me!' He panted slightly – if she went down there, Erik would tell her – tell her that he had been there last night, but had nothing to do with the bruises.

'Where's the writer?'

Christine frowned. 'He disappeared. I'm afraid Erik got him too. Another reason, Raoul.'

The Vicomte shook his head. 'Stay here, Christine.'

--

It was back to the silent darkness. The lake was making that odd noise that you often get in presence, just so it can tell you it's near; the dripping noise here and there, also as if the water was telling you just some more 'I'M HERE', but there was also vague music – very far away, in the Opera Populaire.

It wasn't an awkward silence.

'Do you think I should go?'

Erik resisted the urge to tighten his arm around Christian's stomach. Instead, he cleared his throat and said in a would-be casual voice, 'I don't think you _have _to...'

'Why are you really terrible at acting innocent?' Christian asked and Erik could tell by the way his voice sounded, he was grinning. He felt a little lighter and shot back at him.

'I'm not terrible at it. You just know me too well.'

'And I'm _telling you_, you're terrible at acting innocent.'

'You're just jealous.'

'Of what? Your amazing haunting skills?'

'Okay, fine,' Erik said, leaning a little over the other man so the writer could see his face, 'you're not jealous. You're just utterly in love with me.'

Christian snorted. 'A little full of yourself – Also, how we managed to get from innocent to how I'm completely in love with you.'

Erik smirked at him and the writer tilted his head, as if realising something was there for the first time. Erik felt his chest move oddly and realised with a sudden sinking feeling the writer was looking at his mask questioningly.

The writer watched the expressions pass over Erik's face; from a smirk to realisation to scrutiny.

'I was just – thinking,' Christian said, avoiding Erik's eyes.

'No,' said the ghost flatly.

'Well, the deal we made wasn't entirely fair; you know _all _about Satine –'

'Use your imagination and think about what masks are used for,' Erik said, rolling onto his back.

_Hiding things_, said something in Christian's mind and he shook his head, turning to Erik. 'Look, I'm sorry,' he said quietly, leaning up and pressing his lips to the other man's, wondering if his rib-cage had somewhat shrunk so that he felt his chest was about to burst.

He pulled back and gave an apologetic look to the ghost, who looked neutral.

'Do I get that every time you apologise?'

Christian laughed and Erik felt pleased with himself. He shifted back to his original position, wrapping an arm around the writer, and unintentionally _did _hold Christian a little tighter, pulling them closer together.

The writer felt breathing on his neck and felt like he could just stay like this forever. He didn't know how he felt about Satine anymore.

_Should I be going now?_

He felt suddenly like he was _trying _to get away, but that was stupid, he was just trying to not worry people. He knew that much. 'Well, should I go?' he asked, wondering if that was pressing the matter too much for a paranoid ghost.

He was right; he felt the ghost sit up.

'Are you _trying_ to get away?' the ghost asked irritably.

'No,' Christian protested quickly, sitting up; he'd known that would give Erik the wrong idea. 'I'm just saying – Madame Giry's going to wonder, even if no one else will, and the fact that Raoul's probably been found half dead – not that you would've done that,' he added before the ghost could interject, 'I'm just saying, people _will think that_, and I probably should go, even though I don't want to.' He said the last six words clearly and slowly, so Erik might understand that.

He could feel the ghost scrutinising him for a minute, as if not believing him. Then,

'You're right,' Erik said grudgingly and Christian felt relieved for a second. He fell back down on a pillow and waited for Erik follow suit. He didn't.

Christian mentally punched himself and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, finding his shirt and pulled it on. 'I'll see you later,' he mumbled, avoiding the ghost's eyes and standing up, feeling the ghost watching him as he walked halfway across the room, feeling his insides sink lower and lower with each step.

'Christian.'

The writer turned around in what he hoped did not look like he was praying for that to happen. He looked at the ghost and felt his breath catch in his throat –

Erik grinned, indicating he'd noticed Christian's hopeful look, and the writer smiled back, feeling relieved. 'See you at rehearsals.'

Christian's eyebrows raised and he turned back to the mirror, opening it. 'No, you won't,' he called, shaking his head.

'Would you like to bet on that?' Erik replied charmingly and Christian laughed. 'Don't, Erik,' he said, trying to act stern but feeling too much like smiling. He climbed into the passage, filing the image of Erik smiling back at him into his brain.

He walked, barely thinking where he was going – he felt like his feet weren't actually touching the ground but he could hear his footsteps echoing off the walls, so he had to scratch that idea.

Moreover, he was trying to get over the events of last night and this morning. He felt himself blushing; Erik had triumphantly managed with destroying both his shoulders.

--

Barely an hour later though, he'd realised something: Madame Giry's scrutiny was worse than Erik's.

She'd been waiting in his room, wondering when he'd appear; he'd managed to get lost in the ghost's passages, found himself again, navigated his way up to his mirror, opened it and nearly yelled at finding Madame Giry there.

He tried to explain that his surprise was because he thought he'd locked the door, not because he was worried she was going to realise everything that had happened in a manner of five minutes.

'It was,' she said icily. 'I know the passages, Christian.'

'I see,' he said nervously. 'Well.'

'Sit down.'

'I'm fine, thank you Madame.'

She nodded, giving him a hard look. He looked back at the mirror, making mental notes not to use his shoulders because then he might look pained or something and she'd figure it out, oh God why was this so difficult?

'Are you all right?' She looked suspicious.

'Fine,' he said, sitting on his bed. 'Is the Vicomte all right?'

'How would you know that?' she asked, arching an eyebrow.

'Because it wasn't Erik's fault he fell down the staircase.'

She blinked at him. 'How could you have known that –?'

'Well, it's just he's the most likely suspect. I bet even Raoul's saying that it was him. If he's alive.'

'He fell down a staircase,' Madame Giry said faintly.

'Is he okay?'

'_How _did he fall down a staircase?' she snapped, ignoring his question.

'Well, he tried to convince me we were _lovers _once again,' Christian said bitterly.

'So you threw him down a staircase.'

'No; he chased me _up _a staircase; I tripped, he lunged, I pushed him off.' He looked at her. 'I assure you it was self-defence.'

She nodded.

'But,' he added, 'he hasn't been attacked other than that, hm?'

She looked at him grimly. 'No _visible _scarring,' she said, 'and he's sticking to a story that doesn't involve you pretty firmly.'

_Erik didn't hurt him. Physically._ He felt his eyes widen and he looked down. 'Okay,' he said firmly.

'May I ask where you've been?' she added sharply, noticing him blushing.

'Where does it look like I've been?' he asked, rubbing the back of his head – he winced, wrong thing to do.

'Are your shoulders hurting?' Madame Giry asked, noticing him wince.

'No, they're fine,' he said easily, smiling at her, but she was already up and unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it off and glaring at him.

He looked at the floor and said, 'Don't –'

'_What _happened down there –?'

'Nothing really terrible –'

'I _told _him to stay away from you –'

'You told him to stay away from me?'

'_Yes_ – were you attacked by an animal?'

'Of some sort, yes,' Christian said bitterly, arching an eyebrow at her. 'But it wasn't exactly his fault.'

'How long has this been going on?' Madame Giry snapped and he felt like a child again. He looked the floor. 'Since Christine told me he was a murderer,' he said quietly, feeling like this confession was better than nothing.

'So you learn he's a murderer, run off and get on his – good side or bad side, I'm not sure,' she said, staring at his shoulders.

'Yeah, I know,' he said, shaking his head, 'it's stupid, but we just sorted things out and then things got crazy and –'

'And Raoul is the only thing we talked about in this room,' she snapped, throwing him his shirt.

He nodded, pulling it on and buttoning it.

'And if I _see _the two of you, doing anything that involves –'

'I know, I know!' He tested his luck. 'How about just the two of us, _not _doing anything –'

She gave him a warning look. 'Fine, fine,' he said, raising his hands. 'Am I now being forced not to see him?'

'Of course not,' she said, shaking her head. 'One, if you're both finally happy then about time and two, even if I tried you'd both find a way.'

'You realise he can probably hear everything we're saying?'

'Let him; the only thing you've got to worry about is how you're going to tell him not to leave any visible marks,' she said sceptically and he blushed as she opened the door, nodded to him once and left.

He stood up, closed the door, and yelled into the open mirror, 'YOU HEARD HER!'

**--**

**:) Hope you enjoyed it; please review. **

--


	11. Chapter 11

**Short chapter once again. :)**

**Chapter Eleven**

Christine was fairly surprised when the writer opened the door. She stood up, hugged him quickly and said, 'We were wondering if you were okay.'

Christian decided from the 'we' she meant herself and the Vicomte lying on her bed, who looked distinctly nervous, angry and ashamed. Christine saw none of this as her back was turned.

'Fine,' the writer said, glancing at the mirror and praying the ghost wasn't in here. Christine sighed, closing her eyes and shaking her head dramatically and the writer took that opportunity to glare at Raoul, not playfully. The Vicomte in turn glared at the mirror, avoiding Christian's eyes.

'Can I speak to him alone?' Christian asked the Countess and, though she looked surprised, she nodded and walked to the door. On sudden spur though, she turned around and hugged him again, this time much longer. 'I'm glad you're all right,' she said, not flirtatiously, but like she truly _was _relieved.

Christian was surprised at this sudden act and nodded. 'I'm glad you're okay too,' he said truthfully, hoping Erik wasn't watching this because Christine had a way of switching his ideas around.

The soprano walked to the door, opening it, slipping out and shutting it tight.

The _click _had sounded very final to Christian, who turned to the Vicomte de Chagny and said venomously, 'What the hell did you think you were doing last night?'

To his surprise, the Vicomte smirked, and he seemed to be fully sober. He snapped back to the nightmare he'd had and resisted the urge to rub his neck in disgust. 'Stay away from me,' he managed, turning around to walk out the door.

'Oh, please,' Raoul said lightly, 'I'm not discouraged by a little stalling.'

Christian whipped around. 'I've got half a mind to kill you right here!'

'You wouldn't kill anyone.'

'You're right – I wouldn't,' Christian said slowly, 'but that reminds me; what did you say to stop Erik from murdering you last night?'

Raoul stopped smirking. Instead, he glared at the writer. 'I said nothing. It seemed his intentions weren't physical.'

'What, they were mental?' Christian raised an eyebrow, thinking how very unlike Erik that seemed.

'No. He just told me to stay away from you _or _he'd kill me. Simple.'

'And are you going to listen to him?'

Raoul grinned and Christian rolled his eyes. 'You're digging yourself a grave here,' he told the Vicomte.

'Oh and do you mind telling me who you were thinking about?' Raoul asked, pouting.

Christian rolled his eyes and said, 'If you come near me again –'

'Monsieur, you're taking this too far,' the Vicomte said, smirking.

_Why did I _ever _object to Erik killing you?_

Instead, Christian gave Raoul one final homicidal glare, which he noticed proudly the Vicomte looked away from, and he walked to the door, whipping it open and nearly walking into Christine and Meg Giry.

'I heard... raised voices,' Christine said uncertainly, as if mentioning that would cause the writer to start yelling at her. He realised he must look fairly angry; he _felt _angry. His emotions switched on his face. 'It was nothing.' He smiled at her and she smiled back and for a second he felt like they were brother and sister. Meg nodded at them both and walked into Raoul's room. Christine followed her and the writer was left alone. He shrugged and walked towards the stage, unsure of what really to do.

--

Madame Giry glared at him and he glared back. 'Tell me, why is it that you're done with Christian in about three minutes where now all you'll do is sit and glare at me for the next hour?'

'I _thought _you said you'd stay away from him,' she snapped.

'And I thought I told you _I did_.'

'So kindly explain why the man can't move his shoulders?' She felt amused when Erik looked slightly proud of himself. They were currently glaring at each other right next to the lake, ignoring the portcullis.

'He found me – when someone told him I –' He stopped and Madame Giry blinked at him. 'Ah. I was there.'

'Did _you _tell him?' Erik snarled, standing up and she shook her head. 'Who did?' She shook her head again. 'I wish no harm upon that person.'

'I'm not out to kill _everyone_,' the ghost snapped, crossing his arms.

'What happened after that?' she asked slowly, narrowing her eyes.

'Well, if you _really _want to hear the full story –'

'Everything before you started –' she waved a hand and he smirked.

'Fine. He came down here, furious, and I managed to switch the blame around.'

'So you blamed someone _else _for the murders?'

'No. I blamed_ him_ for Raoul, the whole reason this madness started.'

'That was cruel.'

'Simply what I felt,' the ghost shrugged. 'He ended up confessing –'

'It's so romantic how you two got together,' she said, arching an eyebrow. 'You push him into confessing.'

'I was _about _to let him leave and _sarcastically _asked if he'd prefer I made him stay. He said yes.'

Madame Giry sighed, clasping her hands together. 'So then I suppose you decided to try and amputate his limbs?'

'No, that was the next day,' Erik said seriously and she pressed her lips tight together. 'Wipe that smug look off your face,' she told him and he did, shrugging.

'Has he asked you to meet him again?'

'I told him I'd see him at rehearsals,' Erik grinned –

'_No_.'

--

Christian glanced at the managers, amazed he actually agreed with their casting choices – they had taken the liberty to do it before he could think about it; which he hadn't really wanted to as he had a lot more to think about. He stood in one of the wings and kept glancing up at the roof, barely listening to Christine's rendition of a song with another actor the managers had chosen for him: Christian had no idea what the man was actually called, but he was tall and good at acting; the writer felt a little odd when he thought _this man is playing me._

'_We could be heroes_

_Just for one day.'_

'_You – you will be mean –'_

'_No, I won't.'_

He realised Firmin and Andre were standing beside him; he put on a smile and said, 'Nice castings.'

'We do our best,' said Andre proudly and Christian wished he hadn't said anything.

'Now,' said Firmin, with a silencing glance at Andre, 'there have been rumours you weren't actually in your room last night.'

He blinked. 'Um, well I was.'

'People knocked,' Andre said.

'A few times,' continued Firmin.

'No answer,' they said in unison, nodding to each other.

Christian mentally gritted his teeth, but kept up the smile. 'I'm not a light sleeper,' he shrugged, looking somewhat apologetic.

'Now, monsieur, you don't have to lie to us,' said Andre strongly, putting a hand on the writer's shoulder. 'Who's the lucky girl?'

'There's no lucky girl,' Christian protested, taking the manager's hand off. _Why is it that I have to deal with all the embarrassment while Erik just has to watch? _

Firmin nodded, 'Ah, we see,' but winked at the writer, who could feel heat rising to his face. He opened his mouth to say 'No, this is stupid, nothing happened' but nothing came out.

Andre chuckled and nodded understandingly, and the managers stalked off without another word, leaving Christian standing there, mouth half-open, wondering exactly how long he could go before he lost his mind.

'_How wonderful life is_

_Now you're in _

_The world.'_

He turned back to the stage, an odd feeling in his stomach. This play was about how much he loved Satine, and right now he didn't feel it was much. He nearly fell over with the surprise at that thought. _Don't think that_, he told himself. He'd loved Satine. She'd been an amazingly person and she died before anyone really saw it. He thought long and hard for a moment, about her. Nothing happened; no sad emotions, no happy emotions. He wondered what it would be like if he thought about Erik –

His stomach flipped.

He shook his head; this wasn't happening. He moved back against a wall and thought about it; he _must've _felt like this before with Satine, but he couldn't recall it. He was not getting this feeling from a ghost.

He silently banged his head against the wall three times, swearing bitterly in his mind each time.

'You're really enjoying this play, aren't you?'

Christian moved quickly into a position so casual it was obviously not, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching the actors intently, shrugging. 'Yeah very much,' came out quickly.

Erik smirked and Christian wondered if anyone could in fact see the ghost from the stage. He took a wild guess and decided no; it was dark and people just didn't notice him around here. But the mask – He kept silent, clearing his throat once.

'Why is it that you become awkward as soon as I find you?'

'Because you have a way of embarrassing anyone around you.'

'Ooh,' Erik said, sounding hurt and leaning towards him, arching an eyebrow. 'In a bad way?'

'_Can _it be in a good way?' Christian shot back, rolling his eyes at the ghost but feeling himself start to grin.

'It's possible,' Erik said confidently.

'You need a reality check.'

'_You _need to tell me what happened with the Vicomte.' The ghost looked fairly homicidal at that moment, not at the writer, but of course at the patron. Christian couldn't help but feeling slightly afraid for a moment. 'You probably heard,' he said, shrugging.

'I don't hear everything.'

'You usually hear everything to do with me.'

'Would you like it if I did?' Erik asked, smirking.

Christian blinked and shook his head quickly. The ghost nodded. 'Continue on.'

Christian shook his head again, bitterly. 'You didn't touch him.'

Erik frowned. 'So you'd prefer if I'd killed him?'

'No! I just – thought you'd – done something to him.'

'I told him to stay away from you.'

'Anything else?'

'I threatened to kill him,' Erik said, thinking. Christian nearly laughed but continued with, 'He mustn't have heard that: he thinks we're still on.' He'd meant that as a joke but Erik stopped leaning against the wall, green eyes suddenly glaring. Christian looked away awkwardly, wishing he hadn't said that. 'It's –'

'If you're going to defend him, I _will_ hurt you,' Erik growled and Christian shut up, looking hard at the floor. Finally he said, 'Look, don't do anything stupid.'

'Well, is he going to attack you again or not? If you know he's going to and you think defending him will stop me then you're just being an idiot.'

Christian looked at Erik and shrugged. 'I don't know,' he said finally, shaking his head. 'I – I have no idea. Yes. No. Probably.'

He felt the ghost glaring at him and he looked out at the stage, watching Christine rehearse with the tall man. Erik glanced towards them and muttered, 'They're not half as good as you.'

'What?' Christian asked, looking at the ghost.

The ghost shook his head. 'Nothing.'

'Well, you came up here to see me for something other than Raoul, I hope?' Christian said slowly. The ghost smirked. 'How're your shoulders?'

'Oh, shut up,' Christian told him, glaring back at the stage, knowing the triumphant look that would appear on Erik's face all too well.

'Well,' said the ghost, stretching the word out and moving in front of Christian, 'I'm sure I can think of something else –'

'Not while I'm here, you can't,' Madame Giry said all-too-calmly, walking past them. Christian jumped while Erik barely turned his head, instead looking annoyed at the wall behind the writer. When he heard her footsteps disappear, he smirked down at Christian, who was blushing fairly hard. 'Are you needed for that play anymore?'

Christian blinked at him. 'Um, I don't think so –'

He felt his insides drop by the way Erik was innocently smiling at him. 'Don't pick me up, people _can _see,' Christian said warningly and Erik smirked, ignoring this statement.

--

The Vicomte was sitting up by the time Christine suddenly ran back into the room, her face bright red. She leaned against the door, breathing as if she'd just been chased by a horse.

Raoul blinked at her. 'Christine, are you all right?'

Christine opened her mouth, closed it and had to settle with nodding a few times. Then she started giggling and covered her mouth with her hands.

'What?' asked Raoul suspiciously and Christine squeaked.

He sighed, gesturing to the space next to him and she fell down on it, suddenly laughing. He smiled at this and said, 'What happened?'

'I just saw – the – _funniest _–' she couldn't stop giggling and had to wait a few minutes. 'I just –' and she broke into giggles again. Raoul waited patiently, grinning at her.

Finally, she breathed in and out, looking way too serious. 'I just saw the funniest thing; you know Erik –'

Raoul stared at her, arching an eyebrow. 'The reason I've been in your bed all day?'

'Oh, I _know_, I'm _sorry_, but it was just so – look, you'll hear it and laugh.' She cleared her throat hastily and said, 'Well, _I_ believe he has a special _liking_ to Christian –'

'What do you mean by that?' Raoul asked, wondering if he misunderstood. She grinned again and said, 'I just saw them –' She covered her mouth with her hands again, as if it would stop the flow of giggles. Raoul's jaw dropped open; she didn't mean –?

'Are you saying that you saw them –?'

'Snogging,' Christine snorted, 'at the top the staircase that leads to the roof. It was just so _surprising _and I squeaked and I think Christian heard me because he broke it off for a moment and asked if Erik heard anything – and let me tell you, his shirt was half undone and I think I saw something had happened to his shoulders, and it _didn't _look like he'd done it himself –'

'You're serious?' Raoul asked coldly. She didn't notice the tone and simply nodded and laughed some more. 'I never would've _guessed it _though,' she said finally, still not seeing the cold expression on her husband's face.

'Neither would I,' said the Vicomte.

**--**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

_His father was talking to him._

_Maybe 'talking' wasn't the right word; yelling and swearing seemed more like it._

'_You'll bring down this family, boy!'_

What?_ He honestly had no idea what his father was talking about – nor when he got here. He looked around. They were in the Opera Populaire, and they were behind stage. He could see Christine and Meg glancing back interestedly every few moments. How had his father even gotten here? The man hated everything about Paris –_

'_How _dare _you?!'_

'_How dare I what?' Christian asked, honestly lost in this entire conversation. He wasn't exactly sure how this had happened, nor could he really remember anything; it was as if all memories from the past day had just slipped out of his head._

'_You come to Paris, talking about this stupid idea of _love_', his father said the word as if it were some highly unpleasant animal, 'and you did exactly what I told you not to do!'_

'_Can you be quiet?' Christian asked, looking up at the roof; for some reason, he couldn't quite remember why. He heard Christine giggling through the curtain and looked exasperatedly back at his father. 'What did I do?'_

'_The Moulin Rouge!' spat his father and he winced, stepping back. That seemed to bring up memories; Satine._

'_I –'_

'_You were intent on ripping the family's name down, weren't you? What did I tell you? "__You'll end up wasting your time at the Moulin Rouge with a cancan dancer"!__ You have no idea how your mother and I reacted when we heard this –'_

'_When did you hear this?' He looked back up at the roof, _why am I doing that? _'Dad, I think you should go –' _

'– _And then she goes and gets herself killed with some _disease, _stupid slut –'_

'_Don't you dare call her –!'_

'– _and what did you do?! You wrote a PLAY about it, of all the things – do you really have to remind us of your idiocy?!'_

'_Will you just LISTEN to me –?'_

'_And now, just when you thought you'd fallen in love, when you thought you'd dealt with it all, you embarrassed us all further –'_

'_WHAT are you TALKING about?' Christian yelled. He heard people on stage go quiet, interested in his fight. 'I don't understand,' he tried as explanation to the way his father was glaring at him for talking back._

'_At least that one was a _woman_! But now – you disgust us all!'_

_Christian gaped at him, he couldn't remember anything, it was all too vague. How did his father even know? He looked around. Did everyone but him know? 'Dad, please –'_

'_DON'T CALL ME THAT!' his father roared. 'You're no son of mine!'_

_And suddenly the noose slipped around his father's neck, a look of surprise mingling with the anger on his face as he was hoisted upwards, struggling to breathe, and his father was hanging high, on the catwalk, swinging, eyes blank, no heartbeat, swinging, swing, swing –_

--

Christian bolted upright, trying to breathe properly.

_Why do I keep having really bad dreams? _He bitterly considered this thought and looked around his flat. He'd moved back for only tonight and maybe tomorrow. Madame Giry, being herself, had come back barely a minute later and there had been a fight that ended with Erik locked out on the roof and Christian being snapped at to avoid the ghost for a while if they 'couldn't control themselves'.

He wondered exactly why he'd taken orders from Madame Giry; she gave off that aura of being obeyed. So, he'd come back here.

It wasn't a very good idea, perhaps. He looked up at his roof, thinking of how he'd first met Toulouse and Satie and even the unconscious Argentinean, who had fallen through the roof. He nearly burst out laughing remembering it, but for some reason tried to contain it.

Then the rest of the memories came; the Moulin Rouge, Harold Zidler, Satine, the Duke, Spectacular, Spectacular, Satine...

He jolted, wondering what exactly had happened. With no warning at all, he'd managed to get mixed up with the Opera Populaire's legendary madman (or, legendary to other people who bother to know what's going on with opera houses, as Christian was not one of them). He looked out the window at the Moulin Rouge – he blinked. It looked a little better since he'd last seen it. Almost as if people had been fixing it up –

He rolled off the bed, walking to the window. Why would they be fixing up the Moulin Rouge? A grand reopening? Their lead had _died_. He swallowed. Satine had died.

He sat on the windowsill, staring at the windmill, thinking hard.

He didn't jump at the sound of the voice.

'_Never knew I could feel like this_

_Like I've never seen the sky before...'_

Christian didn't exactly know what to do; whether to look for the voice or just stay there and keep listening; the second one was sure what he _felt _like doing... He felt himself slumping against the wall, tried to sit up again and nearly fell over.

He could hear his pulse (or something) thumping loudly in his ears and he _might _have been grinning, but right now it was if he was very far away from anywhere at the moment, and someone had to tell him he was smiling before he realised.

He tried to shake it off and managed to say something; 'Couldn't wait another few hours?'

Silence.

'I thought you were stuck on the roof.'

There was the sound of something jumping onto something else and Christian looked around. There was someone else in his flat now.

'I was,' Erik said, shrugging.

Christian stared at him, feeling his heart skip a beat. _Shock_, he told himself. 'Can you possibly give me notice next time?'

Erik smirked. Christian crossed his arms and tried to tell his stomach to stop moving around. It didn't listen. 'Did she let you back in?'

'No.'

'Then how'd you get here?'

Erik gave him a pitying look. 'How do you think?'

Christian stared at him and his mouth dropped open. 'Did you climb _off _the –?'

'Bravo,' the ghost said, falling onto Christian's bed and waiting for the lecture's to start, staring at the ceiling patiently.

'You _idiot _– you could've been killed!'

'I'm the Opera Ghost – if I go through one day where I _haven't _done something life-threatening then a day wasted.'

Christian was at loss for words. He blinked at the smirking ghost, wishing his stomach would _just be normal_ and that he could think straight. 'Well, that _might _explain why you didn't bother to put on a jacket even though it's freezing outside.'

'Only because you were still working on my shirt by the time Madame Giry found us,' Erik replied, watching the writer blush.

Christian knew he wasn't actually angry that the ghost had scaled the roof – in fact, he was fairly impressed by that. He thought about his dream and looked out the window, at the windmill. He thought about Spectacular, Spectacular. Erik had come to that.

Erik glanced at Moulin Rouge and felt his stomach drop: _Satine_. He wished the lecture could keep going, even if it was just stupidity – then at least Christian would be noticing him instead of thinking about –

He wanted to hit himself that thought was so stupid. _He _was not acting up over something that little.

The ghost sat up, watching Christian look out the window. He waited a moment then cleared his throat. The writer looked over at him and gave a half-smile. 'Thinking,' he said as an apology.

'About what?' Erik asked, hoping he didn't sound very childish asking this. When the writer didn't reply, he asked in a voice which lacked the hostility he'd planned it to have, 'What's wrong?'

Christian shook his head and looked out the window, trying not to yawn. 'I just had a bad dream.' He was surprised at how the emotion changed on the ghost's face – he couldn't tell what the first emotion had been, as he hadn't seen it on Erik's face before – but now he saw anger and wished he'd said nothing.

'Raoul?' asked Erik.

'No,' Christian said quickly, 'look, don't worry about it.'

'What was it then?'

'My father,' Christian said and blinked – he didn't have to say that. He hadn't _wanted _to say that. He looked at Erik and shook his head again. 'Look, it's really nothing, let's forget about the whole thing –'

'What's wrong with your father?' Erik asked softly and Christian found himself talking again before he could stop.

'He's – well, has a _strong dislike _for me and every choice I make.'

Erik nodded.

'He never wanted me to go to Paris. He thought I'd end up wasting all my time at the Moulin Rouge. Which I did, ended up writing a goddamn _play _about it –'

'And if you listened to yourself now, you'd realise that's not you talking, that's what sounds like your father,' Erik snapped venomously, glaring at him. When Christian shrugged, he continued, 'you didn't waste any time at the –' _Say it, say it, say it. _He grimaced and started again. 'You started a fairly brilliant performance in, well, at least three minutes and you –' _Fell in love, fell in love, say it!_ He glared at the ceiling. 'Don't worry about your father,' he managed, wondering exactly how he'd managed to make that sound stupid.

Christian fell next to him and he wished his head would clear up. 'Tell me about yourself,' the writer said.

Erik sat up, feeling the self-loathing attack his mind almost immediately. 'There's nothing to tell,' he said bitterly, avoiding Christian's eyes.

The writer scoffed. 'Right, now, just _who _was telling me a moment ago –?'

'_Really_, you don't want to know.'

'_Really, _I do.'

They stared at each other for a moment and Erik inclined his head slightly, looking back over his shoulder in some attempt to shadow the mask. Christian didn't need to know _anything _about before the opera house – that part had been bad enough.

Christian pushed himself into a sitting position, a little disappointed – not the way people look when they want something, so the overdo it and pout. The ghost watched him – _don't ask me if you can take off the mask because you can't. _Instead, the writer looked thoughtful all of a sudden. He leaned towards the ghost, who swallowed hard, feeling his pulse speed up.

'Have you ever seen Paris from over here?' Christian asked in a too-serious voice. When Erik looked completely confused, he grinned, jumped up and all too suddenly was out the window and climbing higher.

It took Erik a second to register exactly what had happened and exactly what Christian was doing. He scrambled to his feet, following the writer out the window. 'What the hell do you think you're doing?!' he yelled, wildly looking for Christian. He heard a snort of laughter and saw Christian hoisting himself over the large red letters, in front of windows.

'Get down from there, you idiot!'

The writer looked down at him and shook his head. 'I can't hear you sorry, what?' he mouthed then smirked to let Erik know the truth. Erik felt the fear Christian might fall vanish and he smirked back to let the writer know.

Erik barely thought about what he was doing; he climbed up, as easily as if he were walking, getting to his feet and trying not to walk too quickly.

He turned the corner and froze – where was Christian? He waited, leaning warily against the wall.

There was the sound of a clang vibrating down metal and he whipped around, well balanced. He blinked at the metal ladder and looked up, just in time to see something flinch out of sight. He barely touched the rungs he was up so fast.

Christian held his hands up in surrender and pointed behind Erik. They were standing on a small section of the roof which seemed almost like an unused triangular alcove of some sort.

Erik didn't bother looking behind. 'Nice place,' he said, not breaking their gaze.

Christian avoided his eyes. 'I found this place after Satine –' He stopped, inhaled and said the words with finality, 'after she died.'

Erik's stopped smirking; he sat down next to Christian, thinking hard.

_He just said it._

_So?_

_So! _

_Oh, please – you're kidding me, are you that desperate to find –_

'It's brilliant, isn't it?' Christian asked.

Erik snapped back to attention, turning his head to face the direction Christian was looking at, instead of Christian's direction.

He looked at Paris.

He could see the Opera Populaire from this small space. The moon – which, oddly enough, looked almost as though it had a face – shone over the city, illuminating houses that weren't already lit, restaurants, he could even see people on rooftops, some crowds of friends getting drunk, others people discussing the stars and the moon and some just two people, standing close together with their arms wrapped around each other.

Erik mentally banged his head against the wall (_do NOT think about that_).

'Yes,' he agreed. Christian looked at the moon and stopped suddenly.

'What?' asked the ghost.

'Nothing,' said Christian. 'I think – the moon just winked at me.'

Erik snorted and said calmly, 'Christian, I'm going to ask you something and you'll have to tell the truth, okay? Okay? How – much – alcohol – have you come in contact with today?'

'Shut up,' Christian said, ignoring the ghost snickering. 'Won't Madame Giry be wondering where you are?'

'She may _be _wondering where I am, but she'll never find me,' Erik said smugly. Christian felt himself blushing for no reason.He smiled. 'Can you sing something?'

'You're trying to get her to find me, aren't you?' Erik asked, looking confused.

'No,' Christian protested, 'I just like hearing you sing and I haven't really had the opportunity before.'

Erik blinked at him.

'Okay, I have a couple of times –'

'And that will have to suffice you for the rest of your life.'

'You make me sing for you.'

'When have I done that?' Erik asked, arching an eyebrow.

'Fine, you haven't.' Christian grinned, shifting closer but not seductively. 'But I know you've wanted to.'

'Please,' Erik muttered, rolling his eyes, pressing up slightly against the wall.

'Sing,' Christian commanded. 'I'll repeat things over and over again –'

'That's so terrible,' Erik commented, widening his eyes earnestly then rolling them, ignoring the writer.

'And over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and are you ready to sing yet?'

'I'm about to break under all this torture,' Erik said in a bored voice.

'And over and over and over and over and Erik, Erik, Erik, Erik, Erik, Erik, Erik, Phantom, Phantom, Phantom, Opera Ghost, Opera Ghost, Opera Ghost –'

Erik clamped a hand over the writer's mouth. Christian narrowed his eyes.

'Repeat anything and I will throw you off this building.'

Christian knew Erik was joking, but he agreed anyway, nodding. Erik took his hand away and he continued. 'Erik, Erik, Erik, Erik –'

The next moment he was pinned to the ground. He tried not to laugh, struggling to get out of the ghost's grip. 'Okay, okay, I'll stop repeating it!' he said and he felt the other man let go and the weight leave him. He sat up, still smiling, avoiding Erik's eyes and looking out at Paris.

The moon _was _smiling at him. This was insane. Maybe he hadn't gotten enough sleep tonight... either that or perhaps somehow alcohol _had _managed to get into his system... how, he couldn't imagine.

He stared out at all the rooftops and the lights and the carts, the sounds of laughing, singing (sober and drunken) roaming quietly through the alleys below them. He could see people if he looked straight down, not noticing anything, concerned entirely with their own lives, maybe thinking about where they were going to sleep tonight, or maybe even thinking of the person they were sitting next to or –

He stopped rambling in his mind. If he was rambling in his mind then he really was insane. His dream came back to him.

_Swinging, swinging –_

He shivered.

'Cold?' Erik asked.

'No, I'm fine,' Christian said, not looking at the ghost. What had that dream been about? His father blaming him? Well, he'd understand that. His mother was a frail woman who, if she ever held care for him, never showed it around his father. There wasn't abuse – no, just anger and hate and regret. He was a failure in his father's eyes.

_Well, where am I and where is my father at the moment? _He thought angrily. _Dad's back home, and I'm sitting on a roof with the Opera Ghost_. He couldn't help but actually feel better about his situation, no matter how stupid it sounded. His father hadn't gone through _any _of the things he had, and here he was now.

The voice rang out over the city, making Christian forget everything except the voice's owner.

'_Past the point of no return  
No backward glances  
Our games of make-believe are at an end.  
'Past all thought of if or when  
No use resisting  
Abandon thought and let the dream descend.'_

The people down below had stopped walking and were now almost hypnotised by the voice – they were standing, listening, hoping for more. Christian was leaning against the wall – if he hadn't been, he was sure he would've fallen over. This voice was stealing his mind as well as his heart, drawing a curtain over anything else that had ever mattered; all that mattered now was that this voice kept singing this song._  
'What raging fire shall flood the soul?  
What rich desire unlocks its door?  
What sweet seduction lies before us?  
'Past the point of no return  
The final threshold  
What warm unspoken secrets  
Will we learn  
Beyond the point of no return?'_

Everything had stopped; Christian was sure Time had stopped. Then the people below shook their heads, concerned they were crazy, walking away. The people on the rooftops far away continued on with their lives. A few lights turned on in houses, possibly where people were discussing what had just happened.

Christian could feel his heart racing. He turned and looked at Erik, who was observing the view as if nothing had happened.

'That was amazing,' he said finally. Realising it had been at least five minutes since the other man had sang, he added, 'I suppose you're proud you rendered me speechless?'

Erik smirked at him. 'I could be.'

'Well – God, if Madame Giry _was _listening then I'm pretty sure she'll find us quickly,' Christian said, still amazed and wishing his heartbeat would go down so he could at least hear what Erik had to say. He realised he really wasn't going too well at holding himself up, so he decided to lie down instead, looking up at the sky and glancing at Erik. 'But that was amazing, Erik.'

Instead, the ghost continued smirking at him.

'Are you going to smirk at me all day or actually change position?' Christian asked, crossing his arms, not realising what he was getting himself into.

'Oh, well, if you insist,' Erik said seriously, moving forward and pressing their lips together.

Christian felt that same sensation of his ribcage being too small to hold the feeling he was experiencing in his chest and he couldn't help but smile.

--


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Christian ran up the front steps of the Opera Populaire, wondering how Madame Giry would react, if the managers were asking any more obnoxious questions and exactly how, in the ten-minute-period he'd had to get ready, he managed to look like he'd just fallen out of bed while Erik, who was hanging out the window at the time and had only gotten up a few minutes before Christian, looked perfect.

He blushed as he realised he'd just used the word _perfect _for the Opera Ghost.

_Christian opened his eyes, realised it was too bright and turned over, burying his face in the pillow. All he needed was to sleep. Much longer..._

'_Awake yet?' _

_His eyes snapped open as he heard that amused voice filter through his head. He rolled onto his back again, eyes adjusting to the light. He saw Erik sitting on the windowsill, one hand hanging onto the frame as he pulled his upper torso in. He smiled at Christian, who sleepily returned the smile._

'_What time is it?' he asked groggily._

_Erik shrugged nonchalantly, looking out the window. 'Probably... ten, or something –'_

'_Ten!' Christian sat up. 'I was supposed to be at the opera house an hour ago!'_

_Erik looked at him, half surprised, half trying not to laugh. 'I live there but you don't see me having an attack, do you?'_

_Christian ignored him, sitting up and looking for a shirt. He found one on the other side of the bed, leaned over to grab it and Erik grabbed his waist, pulling him back so that he was standing._

'_Why don't,' Erik said slowly, 'you take the day off?' _

_Christian felt the heat rush to his cheeks, but nothing sounded better than what the ghost had just offered. Still, he found himself looking for reasons. 'I've taken enough days off,' he said, grinning at the ghost. _

'_So, take off another one,' Erik said as if it were the normal thing to do._

'_Look, I barely _do _anything there, but I think I should find a way to get paid –'_

'_Well, you'll barely do anything there, so why not just stay here?'_

'_And what about you? What about the Opera Populaire?' Christian asked sarcastically, arching an eyebrow. _

_Erik fell on the bed, pulling Christian down with him then moved his weight on top of the writer to keep him pinned down. 'What about it?'_

'_You're going to let Firmin and Andre run _your_ opera house?' Christian asked, putting a great amount of emphasis on 'your', but as usual he was trying not to smile._

_Erik placed a few kisses on his jaw line, which made Christian's stomach jump. 'I can figure out something later,' he whispered and Christian realised exactly how close he was to agreeing with that. He felt the ghost's smirk, thinking he'd won. _

'_Come on, Erik,' he said patiently, and the ghost grudgingly moved his weight, standing up and smirking down at him. 'How much time will you actually spend doing anything today?'_

'_At least three minutes,' Christian said, looking serious. _

He stopped just before he walked through its doors, taking a few steps back and looking at the poster on the wall. It didn't say _Hannibal _or anything like that. In fact, it said _Masquerade, _with the date and time below.

Christian didn't bother thinking twice about it; the next moment, the door opened and he was face-to-face with Raoul.

The writer's mouth dropped open when he saw Raoul smile brightly at him; he clenched his hands into fists, wondering if he would get into the opera house with or without a black eye.

'Good morning,' Raoul said and Christian wondered if the smile was too tight.

'Morning,' he said warily.

'I'd watch out for Firmin and Andre. They're bound to wonder where you were.'

'Well, I work here, so I'm sure they'll find me somehow,' Christian said. Raoul forced a laugh and walked past him.

Christian watched his back. 'Are you feeling all right?' he called. Raoul turned around, still smiling and said, 'Never better,' and continued walking.

The writer wondered of the strange encounter and cautiously walked into the opera house, wondering if someone was going to kill him. No one did, but someone came close.

Somehow, Firmin and Andre appeared out of nowhere, cornering him. He stopped for a second, blinking, then began with 'Good morning –'

'Monsieur,' Andre said, nodding.

'Mister Writer,' Firmin said sternly, 'do you mind telling us where you've been?'

'Erm,' Christian said and Madame Giry walked into his line of vision, followed by Christine and Meg.

'Meg Giry suggested I go home; she said I should try getting ideas in different surroundings,' he lied quickly, glancing meaningfully at Meg. 'But I wouldn't want her to take blame in anything if that's what this is about.'

Meg turned bright red and smiled shyly at Christian and the managers. Christine took this opportunity to give the writer a very 'know-it-all' look, which Christian didn't understand.

'Ah,' Firmin said lightly, 'but, tell us, who is this person you're spending your –'

'I'm not _spending _anything with anyone,' Christian said firmly, hoping more than anything he would never have to hear Erik's say in this matter.

'Please, monsieur,' Madame Giry said, 'he has had a bad morning. I will deal with him if you like.'

Christian swallowed. The managers didn't notice the "deal with him" line apparently, because they thought this seemed a splendid idea.

'Excellent!' Firmin said, clapping Christian on the shoulder and the writer was thankful the bruises weren't bad enough to wince anymore. 'You two finish this discussion and we'll help with the play!'

'Yes,' said Andre, nodding, 'splendid idea. Come Christine, Meg,' he added and the four of them walked away, leaving the two standing alone, besides the odd person coming in here and there.

Madame Giry took Christian's arm and led him towards the backstage. It took a while to get there, but Christian didn't complain. He was wondering exactly how much time he would have if he knocked out of her grip and ran back out. Or down to the cellars. The cellars seemed like a great option right now.

Suddenly, Madame Giry stopped and they were behind the stage. There were people walking around them, but no one was listening. Nonetheless, Madame Giry was very quiet.

'Would I be right in thinking you know where Erik is?' Madame Giry asked, arching an eyebrow at Christian.

Christian was surprised; he was certain she'd be angry. 'He's back here.'

'_Back _here?'

'Well, you know, obviously he found a way off the roof, didn't he?' He saw her nod and continued, 'I'm sorry if that frightened you –'

'You should not be sorry.'

'Well, I am.'

They looked at each other and finally she nodded. 'Apology accepted,' she said finally. 'I _was _a little... shocked when I opened the door and found –'

'He wasn't there,' Christian finished, nodding in agreement. 'I probably would've thought the worst.'

'I did,' Madame Giry said quietly and Christian blinked. Then her expression cleared. 'But I don't believe I should try keeping you two away from each other, should I?'

'Why were you trying in the first place?'

'I believe, monsieur, you would be flustered too if you saw the Opera Populaire's ghost and writer sharing tongues,' Madame Giry said amusedly and Christian rubbed the back of his head, hoping he wasn't turning red.

'Also, Countess de Chagny happened to see it too –'

'Christine?!'

'Yes.'

'Saw –?'

'Yes.'

'Oh, my God,' Christian said, putting his head in his hands.

'Don't worry, monsieur,' Madame Giry told him. 'She confided in me and hasn't told anyone else. And she _won't_.'

'Erik's listening to this right now, isn't he?' Christian said, looking up. He was almost certain he heard a chuckle but he couldn't see any white. 'Bastard's hiding,' he muttered and Madame Giry smiled, shaking her head.

'Honestly Christian, you're not going to do anything here except look for him.'

'No, I'm not,' Christian said absently, squinting up at the ceiling.

Madame Giry took his arm again and he looked at her. 'Just go find him and take a day off,' she said knowingly and with that, turned and walked away to the chorus girls, a few who were waving flirtatiously at Christian. He didn't reply, simply turning around and wondering whether to follow Madame Giry's advice or not.

He whirled around as someone tapped his shoulder; he was surprised to see a small, mousy haired girl looking up at him with grey eyes. He realised she was one of the chorus girls, one who hadn't been waving at him. Over her shoulder he noticed the others were watching her anxiously, some with their hands over their mouths. Madame Giry wasn't present at the moment, but Christian could see her coming back. He looked down at the mousy haired girl and smiled. 'Morning.'

She clasped her hands together. 'Morning,' she replied breathlessly. Christian smiled again. Then she shook her head and said shyly, 'Monsieur, I was wondering if... you would accompany me to the masquerade this weekend?'

'They organised that quick.'

'Yes,' the girl nodded so hard Christian thought her head might fall off. He felt sorry for her. 'Only if you wish... I understand if there is... _someone else_...'

_She was only sixteen, _he decided. She didn't look as though she was trying to flirt with him or that she was desperate to have him. Only that she had a small crush on him. He smiled sadly at her.

'I'm really sorry,' he said, meaning it, 'but there is. Also, I wasn't really planning to go to it –'

The girl breathed in, closing her eyes. 'Okay,' she said, as if she had done the world's greatest task. Christian didn't laugh; instead, the Countess took this as a great time to butt in.

'Not going to the masquerade?' she asked, stunned, for some reason ruffling his hair to get his attention. Christian wondered where she had actually come from and stepped out of her reach. The mousy haired girl turned red and walked away quickly. Christian wasn't exactly sorry to get rid of her, but he wished he wasn't by himself with Christine.

'No,' he told her in a tone that meant "I'm perfectly happy with my choice and I'm not changing my mind".

She dropped her voice. 'I'm certain monsieur OG would,' she whispered, nodding once. 'I know him.'

Christian felt irritation cloud his mind. This was exactly what he hadn't wanted to hear from Christine. 'Well, he can,' the writer said, walking past her.

Christine followed him. 'You can't _not go _to a masquerade,' she continued, appalled. 'It's impossible.'

'No, it's not, and I can prove that,' Christian replied calmly, walking up the stairs that led to his room.

Christine didn't seem slightly affected by the fact her husband had fallen down these stairs the other night. 'Erik won't be happy,' she blurted, quickly following him.

The writer turned around and she stopped. 'Stop using the ghost as an excuse. Why do you want me there?'

'WELL, it seems stupid that you miss out on something amazing,' she replied.

He frowned. 'What's the other reason? That you just want to mention the ghost in general for _some reason_?'

She blushed. 'Of course not. I just –'

'Why aren't you rehearsing?' Christian asked exasperatedly. He just wanted to find Erik.

Christine opened her mouth again, but then something caught her eye. She turned her head and her face split into a smile. 'Raoul!'

The writer immediately turned and walked up the last three steps, fairly quickly. He heard Christine chatter excitedly, opened his door and disappeared into his room.

He caught sight of his reflection; his hair looked like it did when he first woke up. Christine was obviously an expert at ruffling hair. He ran a hand through it but it seemed to look more untidy. He wondered exactly why Christine had done that – maybe it meant she thought they were close friends now. He gave his reflection another irritated glance then fell back on his bed.

_What does she mean 'I know him'?! _he thought irritably, glaring up at the ceiling. _And because I _really _don't, _he added sarcastically. He didn't care that he was saying this inside his head; if he said it out loud, there was a large chance Erik would hear and probably misunderstand.

_Erik_. He put his hands over his eyes. He'd been doing that a lot lately. _I should've taken the day off, _he told himself bitterly, thinking of the offer that morning. He thought about Christine's attempts to get him into the masquerade and frowned; _what does she mean 'I know him'?_

--

It had to be at least midnight.

It turned out Christian _had _been needed for more than three minutes; much more, in fact.

'We're wondering, monsieur, _where _exactly did you get this idea of these two characters?' asked Firmin when Christian walked back downstairs, still puzzled at Christine's statement.

'I thought it up,' Christian said, tapping the side of his head. He was too annoyed at the moment to tell them anything; he doubted he would have even if he had been ecstatic. That was personal.

'Aha,' said Firmin, looking enthusiastic, 'now, tell us how this magical sitar ties in?'

Christian rolled his eyes. It didn't seem very easy to understand; a play about forbidden love, and the lovers half-created/half-stared in this play, which was practically telling their story to begin with. Only one had a happy ending.

_Which one? _Christian thought absently and nearly hit himself at the thought; Satine was _dead _– of course the play had the happier ending!

He looked over at the managers and nodded to mean 'Anything else?'

'Yes – erm, we can't exactly get a few actors to sing _this –_'

'Reminds them a slight bit too much of _Don Juan _–'

'What's that?' Christian asked, looking at both of them. Andre pointed to a piece of paper. 'Well, this... "Diamond Dogs" song or whatever it is... the cancan –'

'No, what's _Don Juan_?' Christian asked.

'_Don Juan Triumphant_,' Andre corrected.

'Ever heard of _Macbeth_?' asked Firmin, narrowing his eyes. Christian nodded slowly. 'Well, classify _Don Juan _as something like that, in a different manner. Opera. Very... interesting play, interesting subject – like yours, with the Moulin Rouge! Damn chandelier crashed and the –' He sighed. 'Caught on fire.'

'Is this perhaps one of your infamous incidents with the Opera Ghost?' Christian asked, trying not to feel amused; but he was feeling bad enough already, something should be able to make him laugh. He looked innocently at a set when both Firmin and Andre glared at him, ignoring the cast members running around them.

'Per-haps,' Andre said through gritted teeth.

'Damn ghost _wrote _that thing,' Firmin said, his face clouding over, as the whole thing brought back bad memories.

Christian brightened, intrigued. 'Erik wrote an opera?'

'I'm sorry, what, dear boy?' Andre asked, gazing questioningly at him.

'Oh, um, did the – Phantom write an opera?' Christian repeated. Firmin nodded while Andre blinked. 'Must be losing my mind; thought you said – a _name_, or something.'

'Of course, because I know the Opera Ghost's name,' Christian said, completely honestly, feeling the managers didn't get the full part of the joke as he watched them chuckle. He knew; but that was a secret.

'Yes,' said Andre, finally, 'but they won't sing this song – honestly, we could change it –'

'No changing,' Christian said firmly. Firmin and Andre looked sceptical but at that moment he was dragged away by Christine.

'Look,' she hissed as he was pulled over to the other side of the stage, leaving the managers looking quite stunned as the soprano tugged him along, 'two things.'

'What?' Christian said, knowing what one of them would be.

'First, are you going to the masquerade?' Christine stopped tugging, let go of his wrist, turned to him and glared.

'No,' he said firmly, 'and the second?'

'How did you think up all these songs?' Christine asked, suddenly enthusiastic and the writer nearly took a step back. 'I love this "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend"... and how their play is set in India. And the sitar which only speaks the truth and these – oh, just all these _songs_ – I sincerely wish I could have been in the Tango.' She nodded, smiling wonderfully. 'It really is brilliant, Christian.'

He tugged his collar, and smiled back unsurely. 'Thanks, Christine.' He didn't know what to make of things now. 'Oh, just remembered something; what is _Don Juan Triumphant?_'

'Oh, go ask Erik,' Christine said, looking murderous for a moment. The writer grinned at her and with no warning Carlotta suddenly turned him around.

'_Ow _am I supposed to 'andle this?!'

'Handle what?' Christian was at a completely loss.

'This – _Nini_. Who is she?' Carlotta demanded, shaking him. He was sure he'd be covered in glitter later.

'Um, she's a beautiful woman who is... often not given the praise she deserves,' Christian said, after a moment. 'I thought, since that was like you; you do such an _amazing job _at there and you don't get _nearly _enough thanks.'

Carlotta narrowed her eyes. 'Not even when full house applaud?' she asked slyly.

'Not even then,' Christian told her, unhooking her fingernails from his shirt. 'I know you're fairly different characters besides that, but maybe you'll find it fun.' He turned to walk away and banged foreheads with Madame Giry.

'What...? Sorry!' Christian apologised, wondering exactly how many people he could run into in three minutes. 'Is your head okay?'

She smiled, eyes glittering. 'Fine, Christian. I beg your pardon, monsieur,' Madame Giry said, nodding in apology. 'And just _ask _Erik about _Don Juan_,' she added, smirking at him.

'How did you even _hear that_?' Christian asked, truly convinced she had some kind of mental power. She smiled mysteriously and walked away, clapped once and the chorus girls flew out onto the stage. Christian shrugged, sat down and watched the play roll on.

He saw the Vicomte glance at him a few times. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but the patron looked fairly angry whenever he looked at Christian, as if he'd done something unimaginable. Christian didn't care; Raoul stayed away from him, which was all he needed.

It was odd to see the story at first; they were only doing bits and pieces, but every few moments he'd think _I remember that_ or laugh at the impressions of Toulouse or the Argentinean; and he couldn't help thinking when his character sang 'Your Song' that there should've been a third person. No one sang 'Come What May' and he was thankful for that; if they had, he probably would have thought up something different for the lyrics, although he only mentioned this once in his mind then ignored it. And no one did Satine's death; he didn't have to watch it and he decided he'd prevent himself from ever seeing it; the odd thing was, now when he thought about it, it didn't hurt. Also, his mind was adding in a shadow above them as the crowd continued to applaud, watching as the tragedy unfolded.

Finally, they'd decided to leave. He thanked them all and they thanked him back; at the end of it, he didn't think 'thank you' sounded like a sentence anymore, but he was grateful that they'd done this entire thing.

Now, the stage was empty.

There was no noise. There was no movement. There was no life, except for him and maybe a mouse that ran across the floor. He sat on the edge of the stage, reading over a few things. The managers had asked him to change a few things and he'd said no, but as he read them over again, he wondered if the audience would even understand. Would the audience even enjoy it? He didn't expect they'd find it hilarious, as it wasn't supposed to be, but would they be reluctant to have a sad ending?

He was certain he heard something move above him; his head snapped up in the direction of the creaking of ropes but his eyes caught nothing. He waited a moment, trying not to look amused and feeling much better in general. Instead, he looked back out at the deserted audience, as if he had decided the noise was nothing. He went back to looking at the paper and blinked at the words.

'I don't have much money but boy if I did,' he read aloud, remembering how his first encounter with Satine had happened with no humour or even despair, 'I'd buy a big house where we could both live.' He heard the noise again and turned back to the catwalks above the stage. One of them was swinging.

He pretended not to notice and returned to the words. 'If I was a sculptor – but then again, no – or a man, who makes potions in a travelling show,' he continued loudly, feeling lighter as he listened behind him for noises. 'I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do –' He sighed, looked up at the empty rows of chairs ahead of him.

'_My gift is my song!'_

He waited a moment, listening then smiling. '_And this one's for you_.'

The writer was surprised when he heard someone else's voice.

'_And you can tell everybody _

_That this is your song.'_

Christian grinned to himself, simply because it was the only way to map down exactly what he was feeling, looking up at the roof in front of him, ignoring the stage behind. '_It may be quite simple but_,' he continued, '_now that it's done_...'

'_Hope you don't mind_

_I hope you don't mind_

_That I've put down in words,' _continued the voice and then silence.

'_How wonderful life is_

_Now you're in the world_,' Christian supplied, finally looking behind him. He couldn't see the ghost; but God, as if anyone could mistake that voice. And he'd already known Erik was there.

'_Sat on the roof,' _he began again,

'_And I kicked off the moss_

_Well a few of the verses, well_

_They got me quite cross._'

'_But the sun's been kind,_' he heard Erik retain, '_while I wrote this song.'_

Christian could feel the confidence build up in him. He stood up, looking at the roof, wondering exactly where Erik was, trying to catch a glimpse of him. '_It's for people like you that,_' he sang, grinning up at the ceiling, '_keep it turned on..._'

He saw the upper half of the ghost's body swing into view; Erik had been lying flat on the catwalk, listening. The ghost looked over at him, grinned and continued as he stood up.

'_So excuse me forgetting_

_But these things I do_

_Well you see I've forgotten if they're_

_Green or they're blue!_'

Christian laughed, feeling definitely lighter than air, and Erik leaned over the rope slightly, grinning back.

'_Anyway the thing is_,' Erik continued and Christian tried to look serious, but ended up grinning widely, '_what I really mean; yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen...'_

The writer smiled at the ghost, who walked suddenly into the darkness. Christian blinked, wondered where the ghost had gone and began strongly again, turning back to the empty chairs as if there were people watching him, still grinning:

'_And you can tell everybody_

_That this is your song!_

_It may be quite simple but,_' he said finally as he sat back down on the edge of the stage, swinging his legs, '_now that it's done...' _He expected it would all fade into silence for after that, but in that small second realised how wrong he was.

'_I hope you don't mind_

_I hope you don't mind_

_That I've put down in words...'_ Christian jumped, turning around and blinking at Erik, who sat down next to him, avoiding eye contact. '_How wonderful life is now you're in the world.'_

The writer grinned at the ghost, who finished the note and, after a moment, said, 'Don't _ever _make me do that again,' and hoisted himself onto his feet.

Christian burst out laughing, covering his mouth with his hands. Erik found himself grinning again and he pulled Christian to his feet and the writer walked behind stage. Erik followed, unsure of where they were going but completely fine with that. In fact, he was quite sure Christian didn't know either. 'You had, what, a minute to yourself today?'

'And _that _is why we didn't take a day off,' Christian teased. He stopped when he saw Erik looking slightly happier. 'What?' he asked, suspiciously.

'Nothing,' said Erik, liking the sound of 'we'.

Christian snorted, leaning forwards and kissing the ghost, feeling instantaneously amazing. He pulled back, flipped Erik's collar back into position then smiled at the ghost, who cocked his head in reply, green eyes thinking overtime as they looked into his face.

'What?' asked Christian again, this time not knowing whether to be suspicious or listen to his stomach which was once again trying to perform acrobatics.

'Oh, nothing,' Erik said, mouth curving into a smirk; Christian arched an eyebrow and said, 'Seriously, Erik.'

The ghost looked down at him and said seriously 'I was just thinking how many convenient places there are in this opera house.'

Christian blinked at him, looked around and realised they were right out front of the storage room. _We got here fast_, he decided then looked at Erik, confused. '_What –_?'

But the ghost cut him off by closing the distance between them. Christian felt his mind slowly disappearing when he realised he could hear something behind him opening. He pulled back, looked at the open door behind him and into the storage room. He remembered the chest and the bed and the broken sets which they _still _hadn't fixed and –

'What did you mean by convenient places?' Christian said slowly, catching on suddenly. Erik smirked and he felt his heart leap in his chest. The ghost pushed him into the room, closing the door.

--

Firmin sat up abruptly. 'Andre!' He pushed the other man; he hated it when they fell asleep at the desk. 'Andre, wake up!'

The other man sat up too, snores stopping. 'What?' he asked blearily.

'Did you just hear the Opera Ghost singing?'

Andre's eyes widened. 'Do you think he heard us comparing _Don Juan _to _Macbeth_?'

Firmin didn't like answering questions he didn't know the answer to. So, ignoring that, he continued on. 'The only thing was that I _thought _it also sounded like our writer,' he said thoughtfully after a moment. Andre looked surprised.

Then they both laughed.

'You're going mad,' Andre remarked.

'It's the stress,' Firmin replied. And with that, both gentlemen picked their way back off to sleep.

--

**Oh, yep, that was corny – but I don't think I could resist. ;) Please review**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

'You're going,' Christine told him twelve hours later, on the front steps of the Opera Populaire.

'Will you leave me alone?'

'Not until you say you're going,' she tersely replied; he glared at her. 'Christine, I'm _not _going. You don't _need _me to go and no one else does either.'

'Erik,' Christine pointed out and Christian looked around to make sure no one was listening. 'By the way, _what _were you doing walking out of the storage room at ten o'clock?' she added knowingly and he rolled his eyes, ignoring her. 'Why do you want me to go?'

'Why _don't _you want to go?'

'Why should I?'

'Why shouldn't you?'

'Can you stop that?' he said, glaring at her. She shook her head at him and glared back. 'Look, Christian,' she said, 'you've _got _to be an idiot if you miss out on this. I _know _you're not an idiot, so...?'

He pretended not to know he was supposed to answer the rest, waiting patiently and looking at her. When she still remained adamant he answer, he continued, 'So...?'

'Oh, _God_, Christian, stop being so –' Christian could just imagine her trying not to say '_idiotic_'. Instead, while she struggled to find a word, he said coolly, 'I'm not going. No one is going to care. Trust me.'

'Then I'll tell Erik.'

'I think he _knows_ – God knows he isn't hiding in the roof at all times –'

'I think if he _did _know then you'd be going already, reluctant or not.'

Christian stared at her and had to admit that was somewhat right. But he _knew _the ghost had been there. It was going to come up sometime today, he knew it. 'Maybe it just hasn't come up yet,' he shrugged. 'Listen, have you told anyone about...?'

'Meg,' she said after a minute. He blinked at her. 'Oh, Madame Giry already knew, Meg was _bound _to find out... she seemed a little put-out, she was interested in you.'

Christian blushed. 'Have you told _anyone _else?' he asked sternly.

She looked at him then quickly shook her head. 'No. But _please _tell me you'll come!'

'What have I been telling you for the past twenty-four hours?'

'People can change their mind in twenty-four hours!'

'Or they can like their first answer even _more_ after twenty-four hours,' he replied and they didn't break eye contact.

'I'm telling Erik,' she said finally and stalked back into the opera house.

'You're unbelievable,' he called after her as the doors closed. '_And _wasting your time; he's not going to care.'

He rolled his eyes, sat down on the steps and watched as the carriages went by. Christine had taken him out here so they could have _some form _of privacy from the Opera Populaire, but now he felt almost like everyone knew. At least, everyone he really talked to knew.

'_There was a boy_...'

He sat up straight, moving his head in every direction. That voice sounded familiar – no one from the Opera Populaire.

'_A very strange... enchanted boy..._'

Christian's jaw dropped open as he recognised the voice. He stood up and walked back up the steps, slipping in the doors as a few girls walked out, talking animatedly with each other.

When the doors closed, he walked towards his room and wondered exactly what he heard. He had thought for a moment it had been Toulouse – _Toulouse! _–, from the Moulin Rouge, Toulouse, who he had first met when an unconscious Argentinean had dropped through his roof and the dwarf had been dressed as a nun.

But him, Satie, the Doctor and the Argentinean had left after Satine had died. He hadn't seen them in Paris ever again; they abandoned their flat above him and one day he'd been up in it, just to see if they were still there, and found the small room on the roof. He'd only been up there because he'd lost all track of time; he didn't know what year it was even.

But it seemed Toulouse was back in Paris, maybe with the others. Christian was excited almost; Toulouse was an excellent friend and they'd all had fun together at times. But he had a feeling the dwarf would be interested in his well-being, which, for Toulouse, meant if he was over Satine, who was he interested in now.

He walked up the staircase, waiting to see if Christine would appear and tell him what to do. He felt relieved she didn't, but he felt that those seconds it took for him to get up the stairs were some of the most paranoid seconds of his life.

But they didn't matter. Because just before he opened his door, Christine did, walking out of his room.

She either didn't know exactly how confusing this would be and didn't see him (which he found unlikely, as she pushed past him to get out) or she didn't care. In fact, it seemed she was going to go on ignoring him as she walked down the first few steps, he said, 'Christine!'

She turned around as if she hadn't known he was there. Her eyes widened in surprise that looked far too theatrical and she said 'Oh!'

Christian, still confused and not even knowing where to start, gestured to his open door in question.

'Oh, I got lost while coming back from the cellars,' Christine said, shrugging.

Part of him wanted to say 'That was quick' and feel impressed. The rest of him just said '_What_?' though still feeling impressed at the time limit.

She gave him a pitying look. 'I told Erik,' she said slowly, as if he hadn't known that.

'You did _not _go and see him – that was too quick,' Christian managed, glaring at her. She looked neutral then said, 'Fine! I didn't even go in – I just stood there, didn't open the mirror, nothing. I didn't tell him.'

'Well, he already _knows_. I've _told you_,' Christian repeated, wondering if she'd understand this time. 'But why didn't you?'

'Because he's been avoiding me lately – _anytime _I try to talk to him, he ignores me.' She watched the writer and Christian realised for the first time how jealous she looked.

'What?' he asked, frowning.

'Nothing,' Christine said, shaking it off like a dog. 'Well, I hope you do come.'

'I won't,' the writer told her and she sighed. 'I wish you hadn't made this such a big deal.'

'_You_ made it a big deal,' Christian reasoned but Christine was already walking down the stairs, ignoring any further reply from him. He watched her go, looked around to see if anyone had was giving him glances. He stopped when he saw the rat man he had met on his first day glaring at him, but he felt that was just what the man did. He waved back, not unkindly, and walked into his room.

He jumped when he saw Erik stretched out on his bed, waiting for him. He glared at the ghost and closed his door. 'Thanks for the warning.'

'Do I ever give you warning?' Erik asked, barely acknowledging the writer. He smirked and sat up when Christian crossed his arms, leaning on the door. 'Can I ask you something?'

'Is this going to be one of those questions,' Christian said slowly, 'that even if I say no you'll still –?'

'Why aren't you going to the masquerade?'

'Why do I have to attend it?' Christian asked, shrugging warily. He was staying away from the bed in case method became deadly. Erik stood up and Christian made note to scatter if he advanced. Then he wondered exactly why he was making himself sound like a small animal of some sort in his mind. He resisted the urge to think of that further and instead took a step along the wall, casually keeping the same distance between them. He glanced at the Underwood typewriter and shrugged at the ghost.

Erik rolled his eyes. 'It's so great to know you trust me,' he said conversationally, but Christian knew he wasn't offended.

'You have to be mad to trust you when you're trying to persuade me to go to a masquerade,' Christian remarked.

Erik frowned. 'Why?'

Christian knew he was talking about the masquerade, not his madness remark. 'Just don't want to.'

'You do,' Erik said, narrowing his eyes.

'Oh, you can tell?' Christian asked, trying to look amazed. 'How did you guess?' He shrugged, crossing his arms. 'I don't.'

Erik smirked at the writer, who looked fairly indignant now. 'Why?'

'Why not?'

'Because it's a fairly incredible experience that you'll be missing out on,' Erik answered, trying not to feel too pleased with himself when Christian glared at him. 'Fine,' the writer said evenly, 'what's _Don Juan Triumphant_?'

Erik felt his mouth twitch. 'Don't talk about that,' he snarled and the writer blinked. 'Sorry,' he said, moving to his bed and flopping down on it.

Erik watched him, filing every line of Christian's current position into his mind.

'If I said I'd go, would you tell me something about yourself?'

Erik felt himself actually recoiling from the thought. He glared at Christian, who didn't seem like he was trying to have an advantage, but simply who looked curious.

'How that ties up to anything, I will never know,' Erik snapped.

'Because it seems the only way I'm ever going to get _anything _out of you,' Christian replied. 'Look, my father hates me; my mother barely acts like I exist and pays much more affection to her three cats than me, I'm an only child unless you count cats as siblings, I moved to Paris a year ago, met Satine, she died, moved here, found you, the end.' He looked expectantly at the ghost, who stared back at him without humour. 'Just say anything! Like – your father?'

'Never knew him,' Erik replied bitterly, still glaring Christian, who let this sink in then continued, 'Fine. Your mother?'

'Left me to die,' Erik said, almost conversationally, yet his tone was underlined with bitterness. Christian stared at him then said, 'What?'

Erik rolled his eyes with an expression that meant plainly 'I didn't want to talk about this and you _really _don't know what you're doing'. He sat down on the bed and continued, 'My father left my mother to take care of me and she couldn't wait to get rid of me.'

'Does this have something to do with your mask?' Christian asked and Erik gave him a look that told him irritably he'd hit home. The writer sat up and said, 'Look, Erik, I _don't care_. Really. I'm not going to suddenly never see you again. Maybe that's been your experience in the past, but I won't do that.' He realised how strange all that had sounded but didn't care. He felt his hand moving up to the ghost's mask but Erik turned his head so that the right side of his face was currently concealed. Christian glared at the ghost, who was avoiding all eye contact. The writer could scarcely believe the ghost had any kind of deformity if this side of his face looked this – what? Handsome? Cute? He was not going to say cute.

'Well, you're telling me about yourself,' he muttered, shifting to the other side of the bed and getting to his feet, 'it's a start.'

Erik was mentally strangling himself for at least the eighth time during that conversation. He knew he was making it worse but he couldn't help it. He swiftly moved into a standing position and said, 'I don't know what happened but sooner or later I ended up as a carnival freak.'

Christian's eyebrows raised and Erik nearly flinched. He felt uneasy enough already from even saying this; but he was surprised when he saw something that looked like outrage cross over Christian's face. 'What are you talking about?'

'I'm a monster,' Erik said, hearing the sentence sound like he didn't really care except the _hate _that was twisting its way into his voice. It was a true statement, but: he still _was _a monster.

Christian looked indignant again. 'There's nothing wrong with you!' he said loudly.

Erik looked surprised and Christian realised he was now practically glaring at the ghost; he couldn't just stop glaring so instead he looked at his feet. 'There isn't,' he repeated firmly to the ground.

Erik wasn't exactly sure what how to reply. He settled for glaring at Christian who looked up and said, 'Fine. I'll go.'

Erik shook his head. 'If this is because of what just happened –'

'Because I said I'd go if you told me something. _I'm going_,' Christian replied, trying not to ruin the conversation any longer. _Change the subject – _

_To what?!_

He drew a mental blank at that. He also was avoiding Erik's eyes; he could see out of peripheral vision that the ghost was slack-jawed. Which might have been better than glaring.

'Look, I'll –' He looked at the door. 'I'll see you later,' he finished lamely, opening the door and walking out, slamming it behind him.

Erik stared at the door. He hated how he'd been almost hopeful when Christian had said there was nothing wrong with him; he looked over at the mirror, and his reflection glared back at him, self disgust clear on its face.

'That went well,' he congratulated himself, watching the sarcasm appear in his eyes as well as hearing it in his voice.

--

'Brilliant,' Christian said bitterly as he jumped the last couple of steps, walking back to the stage. It'd be something to concentrate on. 'Running away. Wow, great move there –'

'Something bothering you?'

He started, turned and came face-to-face with Madame Giry, who looked as though she already knew what was happening, but the concern on her face told Christian she didn't know the full story. He smiled humourlessly at her and she concernedly back.

'Of course something would be; artistic types _always _have problems,' she said knowingly. She nodded seriously and gestured to the roof. 'Believe me, I know.'

Christian smiled fully this time. 'It's stupidity; don't worry about it.'

'I doubt it is stupidity to _you,_ monsieur,' Madame Giry said, arching an eyebrow. He blinked at her then shook his head, continuing the walk to the stage. He could hear the singing, the music, the voices –

Only he wasn't particularly listening. He turned around and shrugged at her. 'Just could've sorted something out and I ignored it.' He realised exactly how stupid that had been; he'd made a bigger impression with that than just staying there and arguing.

Madame Giry's voice broke through.

'Things get bigger the more you ignore them.'

'Believe me, I know,' Christian said, nodding and she smiled back at him. Then he walked back up to her, ignoring the fact they were currently placed pointlessly in this room. 'Eri – _He _just told me something.'

Madame Giry nodded, her brow furrowing, ready to explain.

Christian felt the rage at the back of his mind which he told gracefully to shut up. 'He told me that – he was –'

'The Devil's Child?' asked Madame Giry and Christian's eyes widened.

'_That's _what they called him?!' He felt almost like tracking those people down. She sighed. 'This is something you should discuss with him.'

'Well, I'm discussing it with you because you don't think I'm going to leave if you tell me anything about yourself.' He meant it playfully but he felt wrong after he said it.

She nodded. 'I see. Very well. Erik was raised as the Devil's Child. He was in a travelling fair, owned by a gypsy who used violence over a poor being to gain money.'

'_He_ –?'

'Beat him, yes, in front of crowds. They found it entertaining and would throw coins. They'd laugh.' She held a very cold expression now as she remembered. 'I found him one night, when I was only a young girl, studying to be a ballerina. He had a sack over his head with crude eyeholes. The session ended and the crowds left the scene. I felt truly disgusted with humanity.'

'Who blames you?'

She hesitated. 'He escaped. I led him to the opera house. He's lived here ever since.'

'What happened to the gypsy? How'd he escape?' Christian asked in a low voice, knowing what the answer very well could be.

Madame Giry was silent, confirming his belief. He was stunned to find he thought _good riddance_. 'Does it change your perspective of him?'

'Not at all,' Christian said bitterly, thinking. 'No wonder he won't take off the mask.'

'No wonder at all,' she agreed. He looked at her and she felt her heart tug in sympathy.

'You wouldn't believe they were the same person if you looked upon child and adult,' she told him. 'There one we know is more confident; which is both good _and _bad as he's also too confident for his own _good_ –'

Christian momentarily grinned at her irritated expression. 'No doubt about that,' he told her.

She smiled back. 'But I suppose _you'd _say it was part of his charm.'

Christian did a double-take. 'Um – well, that's –' He struggled to find a word. _Personal? Unfair? Completely out of bounds?_

She looked amused. 'You're blushing.'

'No, it's not,' Christian replied, unsure of whether he was lying. Nonetheless, he tried to look like he was sure he was telling the truth. 'Are there anymore differences?' he added, eager to know anything more he could about Erik; so perhaps he could know more about precautions to take when talking about childhoods.

'Of course,' Madame Giry said, nodding. 'There are many, but I don't believe I should tell you. I'm already stealing this story from someone else who _could _tell you just as easily.' Her eyes widened in remembrance. 'Oh; and the managers would like to know who the person making you stare at a wall with a broad grin on your face for _seven minutes_ is.'

'They can keep on "liking to know",' Christian said cheerfully, swinging his arm, surprised he'd stared at a wall for seven minutes but finding it perfectly easy to believe. She smirked at him. 'You're still blu –'

'_I don't care if I am_.'

--

'I told you,' Christine said smugly.

'Will you shut up?' he snapped at her.

'No,' she said gleefully, crossing her arms. 'I'm going to savour this moment. For a long. Long. Time.'

'Glad to hear it,' Christian said, rolling his eyes. 'Look, I need to –'

'Still savouring,' Christine said, holding up her hand. The writer glared at her, waiting for her dreamy expression to leave. Then her eyes looked away from the ceiling and she continued, 'But I'm still not done talking about it.'

'For the love of –'

'How did he convince you?' she asked.

'Through a conversation,' Christian said firmly. 'I can't believe you, you're –'

'Hold on,' Christine said, holding up her hand again. He looked at it as if it were much more intimidating than just a hand. Suddenly she started singing; not her wonderful singing but almost in the tones of one child teasing another. 'You're go-ing, you're go-ing, I told you so, I told you so –

'Yes,' Christian said, covering her mouth with his hand; she stopped in mid-muffled-note. 'You did tell me so. Now do me a favour. And shut up.' He took his hand away and she smirked knowingly at him. _Everyone's been doing that lately._

'Do you know what you're wearing?' she asked.

Christian stared at her. 'I was guessing a mask.'

'You need a costume!'

'Oh, God – this has just lost all sense of reality. Just when I thought I had a grip on things,' Christian said faintly then shook his head at her. 'No.'

'You've already taken one step towards it! You're going!'

'So?'

'So – _everyone _will be wearing something. You have to.'

'This isn't happening,' Christian told her. 'No way.'

Christine sighed. 'Do you want alcohol to help get through this?'

He looked at her sternly then said, 'Yes.'

--

**What a weird ending and chapter in general. Hope you like :)**

**Please review :D**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

It hadn't been a very good week.

Christian fell onto his bed, grateful he could sleep. Tomorrow night was that stupid masquerade that he'd been stupid enough to go to. _Stop saying stupid, it's too late at night. _Why was he going again?

_Erik_.

He sat up, tiredness leaving him. Erik, who hadn't bothered to be seen for the past few days. There had been the incident the day before where something had dropped from the roof and nearly hit Carlotta when Christine hadn't shown up and they had no one else to sing the part. Christian had only heard about that – he'd actually been asleep at the time but when a chorus girl had told him she had been surprised at how quickly he responded, 'Did anything else happen?'

He ran a hand through his hair to keep it out of his face. He wasn't stupid enough to not be eating anything or sit in the corner of his room in depression, but he thought he'd felt bad when Erik hadn't made an appearance the day after. _Now _he knew exactly how stupid that prediction had been.

If Erik wanted to avoid him, that was fine (_God, that's a lie_) but he mainly felt like he was hanging onto the fact that this was _nothing _compared to what it had been like after the ghost first kissed him and then Raoul.

Nonetheless, he still felt somewhat... emptier?

_You're being stupid, _he told himself. _You'll probably see him tomorrow._

_I _better_ see him tomorrow._

He fell back down, burying his face in the pillow. _I'm going to kill Christine, _he told himself. _Severely._

But honestly, he wouldn't have cared at all if Erik had just shown up now, even as he was half-asleep.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the dark ceiling. _Am I really going to put myself through with tomorrow? _The ceiling didn't appear to answer, but Christian hadn't expected it to, so that was completely fine with him.

--

'I wish she would shut up,' Christian muttered, glaring at Christine's back as she practically danced around, gazing up at the decorations for the masquerade ball.

'Oh, you and me both,' Meg agreed sourly and they shared a smile. They were sitting on the large white staircase that would indeed be used for dancing later.

'So,' Meg said a little shyly, 'um, you and Erik.'

'Look, Meg, I'm sorry,' Christian said, awkwardly. 'Christine said that –'

Two pink roses bloomed in Meg's cheeks. 'No, I – that was a –'

'Well, I guess –'

'It's not your fault you two are...' Meg trailed off and Christian grinned. 'I don't really know what we are either.'

'Lovers would fit?' Meg tried and Christian shrugged. 'Well, you are,' she pointed out.

'Well, I thought you were just trying out names,' Christian said. Meg gave a small smile then started as Christine squealed. 'Oh, this is going to be _sooo _exciting!'

'She has a thing for hitting high notes,' Christian said, almost unable to believe someone could be so happy about decorations. Meg laughed. 'Soprano,' she said knowingly. He nodded. 'Oh, um, is the Vicomte attending tonight?'

'I don't see how he could escape it,' Meg said, pointing to Christine, who was now trying not to jump up and down on the spot. Carlotta was watching her with obvious distaste as she stroked the small furry animal that she called a dog.

Christian looked back at Meg. 'So, who's going with you to the masquerade?'

Meg smiled and Christian blinked; she looked amazingly happy. 'What?' he asked.

'Oh, it's a girl thing,' she said hastily, looking down the steps.

'And Christine won't listen to a single thing even though you're really excited about it?'

Meg shrugged nonchalantly and Christian knew the answer was yes. He mentally groaned and put his head in his hands. 'Okay, I'm clearing things up here; I'm going to probably throw up after this, but just pretend I'm completely interested and talk about it.'

Meg threw her arms around him, so ecstatic for a moment she almost sounded like Christine. 'Thankyouthankyouthankyou –'

'_Just,_' Christian said, smiling at the fact she was hugging him over this, 'start talking.'

'Okay, well,' Meg said, eyes moving around in a way that suggested she had no idea where to begin, 'well, he's very tall and –'

Christian smiled at the amount of enthusiasm Meg was putting into this; he shut it out a bit because he felt a little sick whenever she started talking about his 'wonderful personality' or 'great arms', but he tried to listen to as much as he could because he had a feeling if someone ever had to endure him talking about Erik like this (not that he ever would), it would be Meg.

_Or if she ever had to endure you talking about Satine_, he thought hastily. _That too_.

Meg went on for a few minutes but she seemed to be having a good time. She wasn't as girly as Christine, which made her probably a lot easier to talk to. And a lot more fun.

'And his name's Robert,' she finished. She looked at Christian. 'Sorry about that,' she added and he shook his head. 'Nauseous?'

'Only slightly,' he told her. 'But that might have been from Christine's jumping around a while ago.'

She nodded. 'Have you seen Erik at all since...?'

'No,' said Christian, shaking his head.

'How deprived do you feel?' Meg asked solemnly, as if preparing for Christian to make some speech on it.

Christian rolled his eyes. 'You don't have to have stuff like this on your mind.'

'Yes, monsieur, and you didn't have to have me talk about Robert,' she said evenly. He felt almost like he was talking to her mother.

'Meg,' he said firmly. 'You don't have to know.'

She watched him for a moment with a stern look her mother would have been proud of. He shook his head. 'Look, never mind. What we've _really _got to worry about is _her_.' He cocked a thumb in Christine's direction – or where she had been a few minutes ago. He blinked. 'Where'd she go?'

'Probably getting ready,' said Meg.

'It's in six hours!'

'Which is just how long it takes her to get ready,' Meg said, jokingly. 'About two to look pretty then spend the next four listening to everyone tell her she looks nice. And she'll probably fit into that time to deal with you,' she added seriously.

Christian stared at the room absent of dancing Christine in disbelief and said, 'Unbelievable.'

'I better go too,' Meg said, standing up.

'_You're_ not going to get ready now, are you?'

Meg smiled and he couldn't help but notice she was blushing. 'Soon,' she confirmed and sat back down with him.

--

'I think we're making progress,' said Christine optimistically as they walked towards the room. Christian could hear the music, the talking, the laughter; he'd experienced all that but much differently at the Moulin Rouge. Just the thought of that made him want to leave. 'At least I'm not dragging you there.'

'So, what's your plan for tonight?' Christine asked. She'd been over this a few times.

'Go in there, find Erik, leave,' Christian said flatly. She turned around and glared at him. She was wearing something pink and overly flattering. 'You're unbelievable,' she said hollowly.

'I didn't want to go in the first place,' Christian reminded her, but Christine shook that off, grabbing his jacket and fully tugging him along. 'Okay, so our progress has been destroyed,' she muttered as he half-heartedly tugged the other way.

'Can't you just find Raoul and leave me alone?' Christian snapped.

'No, because if I leave you here, you won't go, and Erik will wonder where you are and you'll wish you were with him and you'll both end up having fits about it,' she replied and he glared at her, wishing she wasn't right. 'Anyway, you're looking worse since you haven't seen him; except now, now you look good...' She stopped and smiled. 'Actually, I think he'll probably have a hard time keeping his hands off of you –'

Christian knew he was blushing and frankly wanted to kill himself for it. 'Thanks,' he said lamely and she continued to drag him after her, along a corridor. The talking became louder.

'Erm, you look nice,' he said, feeling he owed it to her. She smiled at him. 'Thank you.' He was glad it hadn't gone as he expected ('Oh, do I_?! Really?_!'). They continued to walk and he wondered about what he was wearing. Christine had honestly found a white shirt and a red cravat, a pinstriped suit and a black bandit mask. He felt unbelievably awkward wearing it but it wasn't uncomfortable.

Then suddenly they were standing amongst people.

There were cats, demons, birds, jesters, forehead masks, half masks, masks with long bird noses, stripes, checked, feathers, whiskers, horns, swirls, spots, golden, purple, blue, red, black, white, pink, laughter, talking, drinking, dancing, light everywhere.

Christian stared; he was pretty sure his mouth had dropped open. Christine smirked knowingly and motioned for him to follow her. 'Look,' she said as he walked after her, looking around, trying to get a better view. How the _hell _was he going to find Erik? 'All you've got to do is stay here for over an hour and I won't judge you.'

'You're judging me?' Christian asked, staring at her back and frowning.

She turned around; she thought about it then said 'Yes.'

'And what if he can't keep his hands off me?' Christian asked sarcastically, crossing his arms and mentally praying no one had heard that. Christine glared back at him when he heard Meg say 'Christian!'

He turned around and felt relieved when the Giry girl pushed away a ram-person to see him. She was in a white dress that flowed down to her feet, and her mask was a cat's face. She smiled widely at him, holding his arm. 'You look handsome,' she told him.

Christian wasn't exactly sure how to reply to that. Instead he said, 'Meg, you look great,' which also at the same time meant 'a lot better than Christine'.

Meg smiled, bowing her head shyly. 'Thank you,' she said to her feet. She looked back up. 'My mother wishes to speak with you.' She gestured behind her before a tall light-haired man walked out of the crowd, held onto her hand and smiled at her.

Christian turned around to tell Christine but she was already gone. He blinked and almost immediately spotted her; she was with Raoul.

The Vicomte locked eyes with him and Christian looked away, feeling already this was off to a bad start. He looked around again and Meg was gone, with this Robert. He felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped, whipping around.

Madame Giry, holding her mask in her hand, looked amused. She was dressed in her usual dark green and black colours.

'Oh. Morning,' Christian said brightly, relieved to have found someone. 'Um, do you know where –?'

'The Opera Ghost is not attending tonight,' Madame Giry told him.

Christian blinked at her, not sure he'd heard right. He could feel irritation and confusion becoming the main holders of his mind. 'Hold on,' he said, putting up a hand, when he realised Madame Giry looked as though she was trying not to smile. He relaxed. 'Very funny,' he told her and she allowed herself an amused expression. 'He told me to tell you that, so I'm judging he's somewhere watching your reaction.'

'Thanks. Any exact points, like "other side of room on the left"?' Christian asked sarcastically, feeling like he should have realised that Erik put her up to that as soon as she said it. He hoped he wasn't blushing, even though he had a fairly good idea he was.

She smiled and shook her head. 'I apologise, but no.'

'Are Andre and Firmin here?'

'Oh, yes. I advise you avoid them at all costs; if they come _anywhere _near the drinks, which they will, they will go out of their way to find out who remains the object of your affections.'

'Can you tell them something completely believable if they ask you?' Christian asked, arching an eyebrow.

'A few ideas have just come to mind,' Madame Giry said slyly. 'Now I'm sure Erik will murder me if I don't let you go.' Almost with that, she had blended into the crowd around him, which was not so packed that nearly no one could move, but was in fact quite well spaced. He could see the room pretty clearly. The only thing was Erik had a knack for hiding too well in his surroundings.

'Right,' Christian said, looking over the room, the staircase, and the people. He noticed Raoul was watching him intently and ignored it. 'That's okay, except for one tiny thing.'

'Is it the fact that you're hopeless at finding _anything_?' asked someone behind him and Christian whirled back, feeling unbelievably enthusiastic all of a sudden. He looked up at Erik and felt his eyes widen. The ghost smiled charmingly back down at him, green eyes shining out from the mask that was covering most of his face. The writer didn't exactly know why anyone in their right mind would cover up Erik's face then he remembered Erik was not entirely in his right mind. Neither was Christian, at the moment.

'Um. Yes,' Christian said after a while. 'That.'

Erik's smile became a little broader and Christian quickly looked around the room. He could spot the managers at the beverages tables. 'They're going to get smashed, aren't they?' he asked, thinking quickly about changing the subject. He knew pretty well that he couldn't do anything as of the large crowds around him and he had a feeling that if he looked at Erik any longer he'd probably break that rule without a second thought.

'Firmin and Andre do have a reputation,' he heard the ghost say behind him.

'Huh,' said Christian, trying to pretend he was completely interested in this. He had a feeling Erik was still smirking at him – and he was refusing to notice his stomach, once again, would not stop moving.

He felt a pair of arms encircle him and to his surprise, no one else noticed. He leaned into the embrace. 'You look brilliant,' the ghost whispered.

Though every fibre of his body was protesting, Christian carefully took the ghost's arms off of him. 'You can't do it here. There're people everywhere.'

'People, who are all too wrapped in their own lives to care,' Erik argued. 'Who's going to notice?'

'I'm going to take a wild guess and say the Vicomte,' Christian wanted to say, but he decided not to as that would just make Erik angrier. 'Just humour me, okay?' he said quietly. He had a feeling Erik knew that he'd been thinking Raoul would notice.

'I see,' the ghost said. 'Well, I'm open to solve that.'

'No, you're not,' Christian said in an overly weary voice, as if he were tired of having this conversation.

'I can,' Erik offered, shrugging. 'And it won't involve murdering anyone.'

'That's a new suggestion,' Christian said then winced, hoping that hadn't been the wrong thing to say. To his surprise, the ghost chuckled and his chest felt funny.

He felt someone grab the back of his jacket, pulling him out of the room. He protested verbally but other than that let the ghost pull him away (okay, maybe because even if he'd tried to stop it was quite possible Erik would just lift him up).

'Hey! If I don't stay in here for over an hour, Christine will kill me,' Christian tried as he realised they were now walking down a corridor. He heard Erik chuckle but they didn't stop.

'Look,' Christian said, trying to get out of the jacket, 'you spent all that time trying to get me to go to this damn thing and yet we're walking the other way.'

'I wanted to show you something,' Erik said reasonably, still dragging him.

'This isn't going to be something where only you can see where we're going?' Christian said warningly.

'Of course not,' Erik said, sounding scandalized at Christian accusing him of something. Then he noticed Erik also sounded like he was trying not to laugh.

'No – you're planning something,' Christian replied. Erik let go of his jacket and he took a step away. 'I'll just see you back there.' He indicated the direction of the masquerade and waited for the reaction, (and telling his stomach to stop moving because now it was affecting his chest too).

Erik took a menacing step towards the writer and Christian felt his heart speed up. 'I was just going to solve the fact that people would notice what we're doing,' he said, smirking down at Christian. Then he looked around the hallway in mock surprise. 'Oh, would you look at that – no people.'

Christian smiled, but not as widely as he probably could have. Erik blinked. 'What's wrong?'

'Why were you avoiding me?'

Erik's eyebrows rose. 'I wasn't avoiding you.'

Christian grinned. 'Uh-huh. I hear you had time to nearly drop something on Carlotta.'

Erik shrugged. 'You were asleep,' he said then remembered he was not supposed to know that.

Christian arched an eyebrow and the ghost hastily looked at the end of the corridor. 'How many times have you been in my room?' he asked.

Erik shrugged again and Christian wondered why he'd spent so much time sleeping. 'Well, I'm not going to complain if you wake me up.'

The ghost pressed him up against a wall; not roughly. 'I'm sorry,' Erik said, not caring how foreign those words sounded on his tongue, and kissed him. Christian felt his heart practically soar and he tried not to notice and ended up forgetting as the mind usually does at moments like these. He tilted his head, trying to make it deeper, but the ghost pulled back and gave him a somewhat hopeful look.

'Do I get that _every _time you apologise?' Christian realised he was talking and that he'd heard someone say that before.

Erik smiled and Christian felt... enthusiastic again? Something, he didn't know what, but it felt great.

**--**

**Once agains, this story is completely crazy. My friend who helped create it just was a bridesmaid at a wedding! She said it was mucho fun. **

**What's up with Raoul? (gasp!) **

**Hope you enjoyed the chappie. Please review :D **


	16. Chapter 16

**This is an incredibly short chapter. (**_**Psycho **_**theme music). I apologise and hope you enjoy. :D **

**Chapter Sixteen**

Within minutes they had decided they should probably return to the masquerade.

'So,' Erik ventured, 'this thing with Christine. Is it a bet?'

'No,' Christian said simply. 'She just said she'd judge me.'

He realised Erik had stopped walking beside him. He turned and grinned at the ghost's disbelieving expression. 'Oh, come on. Like I really care,' he said, rolling his eyes. 'I was just joking with you.'

For a second Christian thought Erik looked thankful but then he was walking again. Christian hadn't realised they could still hear all the noise from the ball down the corridors.

'So, basically, you've been sleeping for the past four days,' Erik remarked. Christian grinned to himself but didn't answer.

Then there were people all around them and the noise level went up as the lights became brighter and the colours swirled around them. Christian felt slightly dazzled by the change that was so sudden he realised he hadn't been paying attention at all.

Erik noticed his startled expression and gave an amused kind of snort. 'Do you want a drink?'

'Make sure it has lots of alcohol,' Christian said bitterly, leaning against a wall. Erik grinned at him and disappeared quite suddenly. Christian looked down at his feet, somewhat disappointed. The masquerade _did _seem brilliant, all that was happening around him, he had to admit that.

He realised quite suddenly someone was standing next to him and he could see their feet. His head turned quickly to look at them and he took a step along the wall.

'Raoul –'

'I have a question for you,' the Vicomte said, pleasantly enough.

'I don't want to hear it,' Christian said slowly, getting off the wall entirely and backing away. 'I don't want to see you.'

'It will only take a minute, I assure you,' Raoul said charmingly. 'I just wanted to ask if you knew about his professed love for Christine.'

Christian stared at the Vicomte. 'Who's professed love?' he asked, having a sudden idea he knew exactly who.

'The Opera Ghost, of course,' Raoul replied.

Christian blinked. This certainly tied together a lot of the things Christine said about Erik. He found himself not really worrying, not caring if this was true because Raoul was really just trying to wind him up. 'So is that it? You two have to fight over everything and you can't stand it if he wins?' he asked. He felt a spark of triumph when Raoul glared at him. 'Not at all,' the Vicomte replied and Christian hadn't a sick feeling that it could've been the truth. Or not.

'Look, get away from me. There is no _us_, there never has been an _us_, and there never will be an _us_.' Then he froze, cold washing over him. 'How do know about Erik?'

Raoul smirked. 'Your secret romance? It wasn't hard to find out. Christine blurted it out something about seeing you two on a staircase.'

Christian stared at the Vicomte. 'This isn't happening,' he said finally, backing away again.

'Oh no, it is,' Raoul said easily, moving forwards, keeping the same amount space between them. 'It's all coming together now.'

'Raoul,' said Christian through gritted teeth, 'go away.'

As an answer, the Vicomte drew his sword. Christian took an automatic step back when he realised the sword was pointed behind the Vicomte –

– and the blade was resting on Erik's neck.

--

Madame Giry had noticed that within minutes of finding each other, they'd disappeared. She'd feared the worst but nearly ten minutes later they'd returned. Then the ghost had left for some reason and Raoul had appeared.

Madame Giry had immediately looked for Erik in the crowd, ready to catch his attention as she knew she could when dealing with a paranoid ghost. But when she caught sight of him, he was already shifting forcefully back through the crowd. She couldn't see the expression on his face but she knew it would be bordering on murderous.

And she didn't want _that _to happen either.

She began to push her way through the throng, to do what she did not know, her eyes shifting between Christian, Raoul and Erik; only too quickly did they all join in the same line of vision.

She stopped, her mouth open when she saw the blade on the ghost's neck. The entire crowd turned and stared in confusion, until someone cried 'It's the Phantom of the Opera!'

'Good God, you're all obsessed!' yelled Firmin, who hadn't bothered to turn around then Andre grabbed his shoulders and made him face the object of attention.

There were quite a few screams after whoever announced that.

'Good timing,' Raoul muttered.

'Thank you,' Erik replied, before drawing his own sword.

All Madame Giry saw then was whir of steel and heard the _clangs _of metal on metal. She tried to move forwards as the crowd watched silently, unsure of whether to stay or run. She noticed Meg and Christine staring in horror.

And then she realised the crowd _was _moving forwards as both men moved up the staircase, keeping a crescent line and a good few metres away from the swordfight.

But when Erik unexpectedly disappeared through a large gap that opened in the floor, the entire crowd ran up to look down. In that time, Madame Giry was the only one to keep her eyes on Raoul, whose arm snapped back into the crowd, pulled someone out and threw them down into the hole, jumping in after them.

The gap closed and Meg screamed 'Christian!'

--

Christian tried to gain some balance but the fall had been wrong; he stumbled sideways and put his arms crossed in front of his head.

There was the sound of cracking glass and he felt a major pain run through his forearms; he didn't care, because at the moment he heard the sound of something closing and he realised the crowd couldn't see them anymore.

He opened his eyes and realised he could see one staring right back at him, only it was broken in two different places.

It was a mirror.

His shirt was grabbed roughly from behind and he was pulled backwards, falling into some kind of seated position. He had the time to realise this entire room was walled with mirrors when he felt cold steel on his neck and a hand pulling his head back.

He stared up at the roof, not swallowing. He could feel something wet drizzling slowly down one of his arms. It didn't seem to be bleeding much and he decided it didn't matter, all that did was the fact Raoul was staring down at him and he had no idea how he was going to get out of this. He hated always being this helpless, but he really couldn't think of how he'd manage to avoid a blade pressed up against his throat.

'So, I guess now,' Raoul panted, 'it's just you and me.'

'Just leave me alone,' Christian breathed, trying not to move.

Raoul laughed and it echoed. Then Christian saw the white mask and Raoul's realisation.

And the sword was off his neck and he heard the sound of metal upon metal. He realised there was no one behind him and he shuffled back against the wall, breathing in fully. His arm wasn't even on his mind; all he heard was Raoul say something he couldn't understand, but it sounded like taunting. He lifted his head up just to see Erik miss a swing at the Vicomte from probably anger messing with vision – the sword struck the wall, breaking a mirror with the sheer force and sticking into the stone underneath.

Christian wondered exactly what Erik was going to do without the sword then realised Erik wasn't _near _the sword anymore; he blinked and heard the sound of a sword dropping to the floor – he turned his head.

Raoul's feet weren't touching the ground; he was up against a mirror with two hands lifting him into the air by his neck. He wasn't getting any air, Christian could see that much.

Then he saw Erik's reflection in the mirror. To say he looked murderous would have been completely true, but it wouldn't have given the full story. There was such hate in his eyes and such finality in his expression that Christian knew exactly was what going to happen.

'Erik!' he shouted.

The ghost's eyes travelled from Raoul's face, which was turning purple. He glanced at the mirror and winced quite visibly when he saw the writer's reflection; Christian looked horrified.

'Put him down!' Christian yelled.

Erik glanced back up at Raoul, whose pupils had gone to pinpoints. He heard footsteps, probably indicating Madame Giry was coming; he reluctantly let go of the Vicomte, who fell to the floor, sucking in air and grasping at his throat. Without another word, Erik grabbed Christian and picked him up, running down the passageways and disappearing a while before Madame Giry found a gasping Raoul in a room with specks of blood, a black mask and broken glass all over the floor.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

When Erik had opened the mirror and stepped through into his home, he put Christian on the ground to see if he could walk. The writer was shaking so much he couldn't seem to stay upright. Wordlessly, Erik picked him back up and walked quickly to the bed, letting Christian land on it.

When he made to leave, the writer said suspiciously, 'Where are you going?'

When the ghost turned to glare at him Christian didn't avoid his eyes. 'You're not going back there.'

Erik didn't even bother to show him a 'just watch me' look; he simply turned to walk out of the room again and disappeared.

'You can't kill him, Erik!' Christian yelled after him, trying to stand up, but his legs were shaking against his will, and he realised vaguely his mask had fallen off. He groaned in frustration when Erik suddenly appeared again, looking just as homicidal as he had moments ago. Christian shifted back on the bed, feeling scared.

'Don't you _dare _tell me I can't,' Erik snarled, advancing on him quickly and pushing his shoulders so he was flat-out on the bed. Christian glared up at him, not bothering to struggle. He could feel himself shaking worse now.

Erik let go of his shoulders and turned to leave again. 'You don't need to,' Christian argued, sitting up. The ghost spun to face him. '_You didn't have to see what he was doing to you_! The first time he attacked you, I was there – the next time when he decided you belonged to him, I was there – the staircase, I was there, _it's happened too many time! _Nothing happens to him after these encounters and he doesn't _learn_ – he's not going to! I'm sick of seeing you in situations like that – and _that_,' he pointed out of the room, '_that_,was unforgivable,'

Christian had never seen Erik this out of control. He had no idea what to say.

Erik seemed to realise how out of control he'd gotten too. He took a moment to try and calm his pulse, breathe. Then he glared back at Christian and said firmly 'He's not going to stop. He _needs_ to not be here.'

'Don't kill him,' Christian pleaded. 'You don't want any more deaths in your name. And since its Raoul de Chagny, the public _will _hunt you down.' When he saw nothing change in the ghost's expression, he felt desperate. '_Please_, don't do this.' He noticed Erik wasn't looking at him now. 'Erik, please,' he said, knowing that he'd already tried everything; if he still wanted to kill Raoul, Christian couldn't do anything.

Erik looked back up at him, still glaring. After a moment he asked, 'Did he get you anywhere?'

Christian mentally breathed a sigh of relief. He shook his head but, almost as if it were reminding him, a spark of pain alit in his arm. He shrugged. 'I think my arm's bleeding but not badly.' He took off his jacket and saw the small crimson splodge that had appeared on the sleeve. It wasn't even worth looking at, he thought. Nonetheless, Erik pulled up his sleeve and Christian decided it looked a lot worse without the material in front of it; but not bad.

'The blood's made it look worse, if that's what you're thinking about,' Erik said absently, almost like he was reading Christian's mind.

'I was thinking that,' Christian said awkwardly. Erik glanced up at him then let go of his arm, standing up and walking out of the room.

'Hang on,' Christian said loudly, 'where are you –?'

'You probably should wash it, I'm getting some water,' Erik replied calmly from the other room. Christian sat on the bed, wondering if the ghost had in fact left. He looked around the room and noticed a small monkey holding cymbals on a table. He stared at it and it grinned vacantly back.

Then Erik was back. He handed Christian a wet rag and wordlessly fell onto the bed. Christian washed his arm, and saw the cut was quite shallow but still didn't really care. He looked over at Erik, who was staring up at the ceiling. 'Thanks.'

Erik glanced over at him, taken aback. 'You're welcome,' he said after a pause.

Christian was surprised when he nearly said 'I love you.' He felt the words form on his lips. He felt a panic rising in his brain. He didn't love Erik. Sure they were attracted to each other, but '_I love you'_? He couldn't say that. It was an old habit. He wasn't saying that. Surely Erik would be just as confused if he said that. He stared worriedly at the ceiling. _I don't love him, _he told himself. _Love is too serious. I didn't feel like this with Satine and I was in love with Satine. So this is not love. _

He glanced at the monkey. 'What's that?' he asked, suddenly curious.

Then he realised he was alone in the darkness of the room. He looked around. How could he have not noticed that? Sure, there was only the eerie glow of the lake and no other real light, but Erik wasn't able to slip off that easily, was he?

_Ghost_, he reminded himself, moving quickly to stand up. He wasn't exactly steady on his feet, but he managed to walk –

– straight into Erik.

Christian stopped, blinking up at him, realising Erik was now back to wearing the usual mask that covered most of the right side of his face. 'I thought you were –'

'Murdering Raoul?' Erik asked sardonically, arching an eyebrow.

Christian avoided the ghost's eyes. 'Well –'

'It certainly crossed my mind if that's what you're thinking,' Erik added brightly.

'I just –'

'You should be asleep,' Erik told him, looking at once much more concerned.

Christian blushed. 'I'm fine.'

Erik sighed as if the writer were causing him a great lot of trouble. He tried not to grin at Christian's indignant expression and said, 'Do you _want_ me to pick you up?'

Christian opened his mouth to argue when he found the ghost had pressed against him and they were now kissing. He raised his hands to the ghost's shoulders and felt Erik's hands on his waist. He realised quite suddenly his heart was soaring and the ghost pulled back.

'You're such a charmer,' Christian said sarcastically, even though his knees felt sort of weak and he realised he was practically leaning on the ghost.

Erik smirked and replied, 'You're going to sleep.'

'And what if I'm not tired?' Christian said, trying to pretend he wasn't holding onto Erik's shirt to keep him up.

The ghost lifted him up; not in the usual over-shoulder way, but this time bridal style. Christian deciding protesting wouldn't help.

'Then I guess,' Erik said slowly, 'we're going to have to think of something to do.'

--

The masquerade hadn't held much point after that. Everyone had been too frightened, too confused by the man and the ghost. Most people hadn't stuck around to understand the purpose of the situation; they had simply left, unsure of whether the ghost was dead, whether the Vicomte was alive, or why that other man had followed them down there.

Meg had tears running down her face. She had been bawling for the last half hour, as soon as the guests had left; she'd planted herself on the stairs and now wouldn't move. The tears were falling completely unaware now. Christine sat next to her, gloomily watching the space where Raoul, Erik and Christian had disappeared. She rubbed Meg's back.

'Meg.'

Meg looked over at Christine questioningly. 'Oh, I'm sorry,' she said apologetically, wiping her eyes. 'Are you okay? With Raoul gone?'

'Oh, Meg, don't worry about me.' Meg blinked in surprise and Christine continued. 'Madame Giry has gone to look for them. But I'm pretty sure they are okay. Raoul – I can't understand why he did that.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well,' said Christine, 'I told him about – Erik and Christian.'

Meg shook her head, 'No! Why?'

'Well, why not, Meg? I had just seen them – well, I had to tell someone and you were not in sight!'

'Then you could have found me! Why on earth did you tell the Vicomte? Surely they could be hanged for that!'

'No one else knows and Raoul wouldn't tell a soul! Perhaps he thought... he was protecting Christian?'

'Christine,' Meg said, 'I don't think so. He looked more like he had when Erik and he were fighting over you.'

Christine snorted. 'That's impossible. Erik has Christian, he wouldn't want me back.'

'This is confusing,' Meg decided, putting her head in her hands.

Christine rubbed her back again. 'Anyway, I'm certain Erik and Christian are fine.' She rolled her eyes. 'Knowing them, they're probably...'

Both girls looked at each other and tried not to laugh.

'Probably,' said Meg after the giggling had ended. 'But Raoul...?'

Christine frowned. 'I don't know. I hope he's okay. He's...' She covered her face with her hands and Meg felt sympathy for her friend.

Then the Countess composed herself and she sat up straight, looking determined. 'Look, Meg, I would like to apologise for not being a very good friend – or sister, lately.'

Meg smiled. 'That's okay, you were doing nothing wrong. You've been excited about a lot of things.'

Christine smiled back. 'Now tell me. Who was that handsome young man you appeared with?'

Meg sighed, feeling her heart rise. 'Robert.' Then, 'I hope they're okay.'

--

Madame Giry glared at the figure below her. She half-wished Erik was there, because the ghost wouldn't have hesitated to knock Raoul's teeth out. But she kept remembering Erik wouldn't stop there.

The Vicomte slowly looked up. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. She didn't understand what had happened to him. 'How dare you,' she said coldly.

Raoul didn't answer.

'How _dare _you? Why do you have to do this? Think of Christine! Your wife, Vicomte, and look at you. What happened to you?'

Raoul didn't answer. She couldn't see his face properly in the light: the glass and the blood seemed to shine around her, however.

Madame Giry shook her head and pulled the Vicomte to his feet. 'I am never helping you again. It's for the sake of the Countess. I am longer pretending her husband is a sane man.'

'I am sane,' Raoul said after a moment. He certainly didn't sound crazy. He hadn't sounded like that for a while: he sounded innocent. And not in the obviously fake way, the way Erik often tried to pull off. 'I just – I'm confused.'

'At what? Raoul, promise me you will forget all of this – _now_. Erik will kill you if you keep this up: judging from this mess I'm certain he tried to.' She glanced at the sword stuck in the wall. Yes, definitely Erik.

'Why are you helping me?' Raoul managed, slumping on her. She gritted her teeth, trying to support his weight.

'Christine. I can honestly say I wish Erik had finished what he started.'

--

Christian opened his eyes and found himself in an odd situation. His arm was slung over Erik's chest, his head on the ghost's shoulder, and one of his legs draped over the older man's waist. He blushed, wondering exactly how he'd gotten himself into this, and moved his leg off the ghost, hoping that –

He felt a hand grab his leg and move it back. Christian let out a shaky breath and said, 'Morning. You could have said something.'

'You're fine where you are,' Erik replied. Christian moved his head back onto a pillow so he could view the ghost better. He loved it when the ghost was still waking up because this was one of the few times when Erik wasn't completely paranoid. It was also one of those times where Erik probably didn't realise he was smiling.

Christian grinned and placed a chaste kiss on the ghost's lips. He didn't know what time it was and he just wanted to stay here forever. _But people saw what happened last night_, he remembered suddenly. It made him feel sick all of a sudden. He didn't want a mob or something to come down here after Erik. So that meant he had to go back up and tell people some story where he couldn't remember anything.

Damn.

'I have to go,' he said, after a moment, moving his leg and arm off the ghost and intending to get out of bed.

So he was surprised when suddenly Erik moved on top of him, sitting on his stomach and holding his arms down. 'Wow, you wake up really quickly,' Christian thought out loud.

'It's a gift and a curse,' Erik smirked. 'Now, why are you so eager to leave?'

Christian decided not to mention anything about Raoul. 'Because of the show. They're probably going to want me there.'

'We've had this discussion before,' Erik said, grinning, 'you don't _do _anything there. All they really need of you is your ideas.'

'Let me up.'

'I don't know why you bother,' Erik continued. Christian wasn't sure if he meant the play, or trying to get up.

'Erik...'

'Take the day off,' Erik reasoned, letting go of the writer's arms and running his hands up Christian's sides. Christian grabbed his wrists. 'Don't, that tickles.' He then realised he'd just said one of the stupidest things in his life.

Erik arched an eyebrow, interested. 'You're ticklish? My, my, that _is _an interesting fact...'

'Don't even think about it,' Christian warned, sitting up and pushing the ghost off of him. Erik smirked back at him.

'You're thinking about it!'

'It cannot be helped,' Erik said in an overly serious voice.

'I'm going,' Christian said shortly, moving to stand up. Erik grabbed him around the waist and pulled him back down on the bed.

'Hey –' Christian was once again surprised at exactly how quickly Erik could manage to pin him down to the bed.

'Give me one good reason why you should go,' Erik said, leaning down and placing small kisses down Christian's neck.

'Look, I'll make a deal with you,' Christian said, trying to keep his voice stable.

'Not interested,' Erik replied, opening a few buttons on Christian's shirt.

'Just hear me out,' Christian said, starting to feel dizzy. It was hard to string words together. 'Please?'

He felt the ghost smirk against his skin and thankfully Erik sat up. Christian blinked at the loss of heat. 'Um,' he said, 'look. The play should be over in about a week and half.'

'If you mean I'm _not allowed _to do _anything _to you until then, consider it no deal,' Erik said, staring down at Christian like he was insane.

'I wasn't finished,' Christian laughed. _What had been the deal again?_ 'If you let me go, now, then when all this is over, you can do anything you want to me.' _Where the hell did that even come from? Damn it, this is what happens when you're dizzy. _

The ghost arched an eyebrow. 'This _is _Christian talking, isn't it?'

'Take it or leave it,' Christian said, wondering if he even _wanted_ the ghost to say yes. _Please say no, for the love of God, say no._

'So you're saying,' Erik said slowly, 'that for twenty-four hours I can do whatever I want with you?'

'Anything except murdering people. I'm not good with blood.'

Erik smirked and moved off of him. 'Then I accept.'

Christian mentally punched himself. _You idiot, you're in a worse position than before. _Still, he couldn't help but smirk back at the ghost. 'Fine.' He sat up, buttoning his shirt.

'So are you really going because you want people to know you're not dead?' Erik asked, sounding like he was trying not to laugh.

Christian froze. 'You knew that the entire time, didn't you?'

Erik wrapped his arm around Christian's waist and said, 'One and a half weeks, Christian.'

'You bastard,' Christian said, shaking his head while Erik chuckled. 'I didn't want a mob to come down here or something.'

'Right, I'm surprised that hasn't already happened,' Erik agreed.

'Okay, obviously I must've done something horrible, possibly in a past life, because I'm pretty sure now that you are some kind of, I don't know, personal hell getting back at me,' Christian said.

'Next time, just take the day off,' Erik said, in that overly serious tone again. It looked so odd for the man to be this happy when the mask was on. It was crude, depressing, and didn't match the rest of Erik's face when he was smiling.

Christian felt his hand twitch and he stood up, knowing Erik was not going to be this loose again for the rest of the day. 'I'll see you... when?'

'I'll think about that.'

'Once again, that's never reassuring. Ever.'

--


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

He could feel everyone staring at him as he walked. Meg's mouth dropped open and she looked as though she was going to hug him when she saw who he was headed for. She stood up and ran off, presumably to find Christine.

Raoul was talking to Firmin and Andre. They were discussing something Christian couldn't care less about. Instead, he walked up and said easily, 'Raoul, can I talk to you.' It wasn't a question, it meant: _we are talking, NOW_.

Firmin's mouth dropped open. 'Christian!'

_My God, they remembered._

Raoul had the decency to look slightly ashamed then he assumed an amazed expression. The managers were gaping at him and Christian saw Madame Giry eyeing them. In fact, basically everyone was.

'We – we thought you were dead! Or... when Madame Giry found Raoul... how did you –?'

'Can remember a thing. I think I hit my head or something,' Christian said calmly.

'Again! Well, perhaps that's a good thing? How did you get out?'

'I woke up in my room,' Christian shrugged. 'I was just wondering if I could speak with the Vicomte.'

'Well, the Vicomte is discussing some plans with us,' Andre began in a grand manner.

'Of course,' said Raoul, and Andre blinked at him. Raoul immediately began to walk away from everyone. Carlotta, Christian was surprised to note, was not wearing glitter. In fact, she looked like she'd been crying fairly hard.

_Please do not tell me she's 'in love' with me_, he thought desperately. _First Raoul, sort of Meg, that chorus girl and Carlotta? Not to mention Erik. What kind of people do I attract?_

She gave him a watery smile and he smiled back. Friend smile.

Then the people disappeared as Raoul and he walked to have some privacy.

'Are you mad?' Raoul asked suddenly.

'I'm furious,' Christian replied brightly.

'Good, you should be.'

'What the hell did you think you were doing? What is wrong with you?!'

'I like you,' Raoul said, a little awkwardly.

'Well, I hate you. It has something to do with the fact that our second meeting ended up with you attacking me, and a couple after that, you shoved your tongue in my mouth! You like me? You have a wife! She's beautiful, she's nice, she's an amazing singer and she loves you. Why isn't that enough?'

Raoul was staring hard at the ground. 'How dare you?'

'How dare _you?_ You're married. I'm taken. There never was anything between us and I want you to leave me alone, all right?'

Before Raoul could reply, Meg and Christine appeared. 'Christian!' screamed Meg, hugging him fiercely. Christine gave him a quick hug too ('Thank God!') then she turned to Raoul. 'Oh, Raoul, I have wonderful news!'

'Thank goodness you're all right,' Meg babbled. 'My mother came back with Raoul and said there was a sword and blood and glass and oh here's your mask,' she finished, pulling out the mask he had worn last night.

'Oh,' said Christian, grinning at her. 'Thank you.'

'What happened to your arm?' she asked, staring at his bare forearm.

'Cut it last night. Glass.'

'Ow. It looks –'

'Raoul, I'm pregnant,' said Christine.

Christian and Meg turned to stare at her, their mouths open. Raoul blinked and said, 'Are... you are?'

Christine nodded, already smiling broadly.

Raoul picked her up and kissed her. 'Christine, that's wonderful!'

'Congratulations!' Meg squealed, hugging Christine after Raoul pulled back. 'Oh, this is _brilliant_! Oh, damn it, I've gone hyper worrying about Christian and this isn't helping!'

'Well done,' Christian said, nodding to Raoul, who was smiling in disbelief. He gave Christine a hug.

'EEEEEE!' Christine squealed. 'I'm going to be a mother! You're going to be a father!'

''Eeeee'?' Christian whispered to Meg as Raoul spun his wife around.

'I guess she's happy,' Meg said sarcastically and Christian grinned. He decided Christine and Raoul were too lost in the thought of their baby, and pulled Meg away. To his surprise, she began to pull him further away from the stage, Raoul and Christine.

'What happened to you?' she whispered as she pulled him through the halls of the opera house; a place he'd never really been, except to get food occasionally.

'Erik saved my life, what more do you need to know?' Christian asked.

'And did you...'

'What?'

'Um.' She had turned bright red.

A light went on in Christian's head. 'Meg!'

'I'm sorry, it spilled out! I was just... wondering...'

'Then stop wondering!'

'Well, did you?'

'I'm not answering that,' Christian said tersely.

'You did, didn't you?'

'Meg!'

'I'm sorry! Now it's in my head and I've over-hyper! I don't often get like this!'

'I know, but it's just...'

'What about this morning?' Meg asked then covered her hands with her mouth.

Christian stared at her. 'Because I know you're sorry, I'm letting that slide.'

'But –'

'No, not this morning.'

Meg seemed surprised she'd gotten an actual answer out of him. 'Oh,' she said, calming down a little. Then she turned pink. 'Sorry, again. I'm a dreadful friend, aren't I?'

'It's okay that you're curious,' Christian shrugged.

'Um. Okay.' She blinked. 'So, um...'

'This morning?'

'Yes.'

'He wouldn't let me get up so I made a deal with him.'

She blinked at him. 'You idiot! You chose to get rather than... _that_?'

'WHY are we talking about this? Can we lose the subject?! He's amazingly good at listening in on whatever I don't want him to –'

'What was the deal?'

'This is over,' said Christian, turning around and walking away.

'I'm sorry!' Meg yelled. 'It will be out of my system in the next twenty minutes, I swear!'

Christian turned back and grinned at her, meaning that it was okay, and that it was completely fine for her to be hyper. When he walked back to the stage, Raoul and Christine were gone. Raoul had never said whether he'd leave Christian alone.

He looked down at the black mask in his hands. That was about the time the managers snuck up to him and began asking questions.

--

'What was the deal?' Christine asked him sharply.

'Look, I've just gone through interrogation with the managers, I don't need it from you either.'

'And Meg was still hyper when she told me. You scared her. You scared me.'

'Sorry.'

'Not your fault. But if you tell me the deal, it can be like your gift to me because I'm having a baby.'

'That is disgusting that you're using your unborn child as an excuse to get something like this out of me.'

'Well, I'm interested too,' Meg said, appearing out of nowhere and landing on the stairs.

'Traitor,' Christian told her and she blushed.

'Look, you're worried about him hearing, and he's not here,' Christine said, sitting down.

'You two are disgusting, that's all I'm going to say.'

'Please?'

'Don't listen to her,' Meg said.

'You want to know just as much as I do!'

'Oh, God,' said Christian, putting his head in his hands.

'Pleeeeease?' Meg and Christine asked in unison.

Christian sat up straight. 'Okay. If I tell you, you can never ask any more questions like this, okay?'

Meg and Christine looked and each and nodded. 'Yep,' they said, which meant 'we'll do that for a little while then ask more'.

'Just what was it about?' asked Christine. Meg looked suddenly embarrassed.

'Guess,' said the writer, not really wanting to say it.

'I'm intrigued,' said Christine.

'No, you're not,' Christian replied. 'Guess.'

'If he let you get up you'd... um...' The soprano blinked. 'There're so many options.

'Choose one.'

'Just tell us!'

'Guess,' repeated Christian, hoping there was something logical-sounding one of them might say that he could use.

'I don't know,' Christine snapped.

Meg sighed, rolling her eyes. Christian felt she was back to non-hyper Meg now. 'If he let you get up, you'd let him do whatever he wanted to you?' she asked sarcastically.

Christian blinked.

Christine tried not to giggle.

'Is that really stupid?' Christian asked, looking between both girls.

'No, it's just... something you'd never say,' Christine said, smiling at Meg. 'Great suggestion, Meg.'

'Oh, okay. Because that was it.'

It took a moment to register with both girls. They suddenly stopped giggling and stared at him with their mouths open.

'Yep,' said Christian, staring down at the entry way to the Opera Populaire.

Meg and Christine started laughing incredibly hard.

'Serious?' Christine asked, tears in her eyes.

'Just keep laughing, don't talk,' Christian said, trying not to grin at Meg, who was covering her mouth with both hands, leaning over her knees, trying to breathe at the same time.

Back behind the stage, everyone wondered where the laughter was coming from.

--

After a few days, Meg and Christine managed to stop their laughing whenever they saw Christian. Meg composed herself on the second day but Christine took a little longer.

Other than that, things seemed to be going well. Raoul had actually left him alone. God knows that was a miracle within itself.

Of course, there were still the staring at him, the grins, the occasional eye narrowing when someone mentioned 'The Opera Ghost!' but other than that Raoul seemed to be keeping his distance.

'Good man, I think this could be done easily in a week and a half!' said Andre unexpectedly.

Christian nodded vaguely, rubbing the back of his neck. 'That's great, okay.'

Andre noticed nothing and continued on walking around.

Christian sat down, thinking. The play had progressed so much and he'd barely noticed anything.

Seeing as how there was basically no need for him to even stay there anymore, he stood up and left, walking back up the staircase to his room, making it to the door and –

There was a letter on the floor.

He picked it up. It wasn't from Erik (he'd seen the kind of seal the ghost used; he'd also tried not to laugh when Andre and Firmin had received one yesterday and read it out while most people gasped in horror). He opened his door and ripped open the letter, walking across the small room and falling onto the bed.

He recognised the handwritings immediately as his mother's and sat up, confused.

He read the letter.

He read it again.

He read it again.

Then he crumpled it into a ball and threw it against the wall. 'Shit,' he muttered, falling back on the bed.

He didn't hear the mirror open, but he heard the footsteps.

'What happened?' asked Erik, staring down at him.

'My mother sent me a letter.'

'Did someone die?' Erik asked, sitting down next to him. Christian moved into a sitting position. 'Nope, worse, she found where I am.'

'The letter should probably indicate that.'

'She's in Paris.'

Erik smirked. 'And you're going to avoid her at every cost?'

'Well, I would, if she wasn't coming to see the play.'

'Opening night?'

'Probably.'

'There's an easy way to avoid this – don't go to opening night.'

'Well, what am I supposed to do?' Christian asked.

'Box Five?' Erik asked, shrugging.

'Whenever we have been in Box Five, we never end up watching the show.'

'And is there anything wrong with that?'

Christian shrugged. 'My father's coming too.'

Erik felt an unexplainable rush of anger and his hands clenched. 'Huh. Box Five it is then.'

Christian snorted. 'Okay, but this time we actually have to watch.'

'Where is the fun in that?' Erik asked, leaning forwards and claiming Christian's lips.

Christian chuckled. 'Wait your week and a half.'

'Don't push your luck,' Erik smirked.


	19. Chapter 19

**THREE CHAPTERS? :) I don't like this chapter, I get angry at Christian!**

**Chapter Nineteen**

It was one day closer.

Erik couldn't help but smirk. Exactly what had been going through Christian's mouth when he'd made that deal was a complete mystery to him. Nonetheless, he was looking forward to it.

He was lying on the catwalk, staring up at the ceiling, resting his head on his hand. He could hear everything that was happening below him, everything about the play, the lines, the talking behind the stage, Christine singing, and the managers chortling over it with Christian.

He closed his eyes so he could concentrate more on the voices. He could tell the writer was right below him. He still couldn't believe how lucky he was to have someone who wasn't afraid to at least look him in the eye.

Or kiss him. More than once, Christine didn't count.

Or even make a deal like that. He tried not to laugh.

It was amazing, completely new, on his part. He never wanted to forget the feeling. Was it love? He blinked. _Is it? _He didn't want to think about it; it was foreign to him to think about if he was in love. He had a strong feeling he was as he'd practically light up just thinking about the writer.

'So, what you're saying is, you think the Moulin Rouge scenes will be a little disturbing to the audiences?' he heard Christian say.

'Absolutely!' said Andre, thankfully.

'Right,' said Christian. 'Could you have thought of this possibly a few weeks ago?'

Erik grinned.

'Oh, never mind!' snapped Firmin. 'It will be fine... at least the gentlemen will be pleased...'

He heard them as they walked away to talk to the chorus girls, and Christian whistling. Erik realised with a start that the tune was something he'd created.

'_Let your mind take you where you long to be_,' Christian sang quietly.

Erik closed his eyes again, trying to relax.

'_Christian!_'

He frowned.

'_Christian!_' The voice sounded like it was coming from behind the stage. He heard running steps, short steps. He heard most of the action below him stop.

The footsteps became louder, and panting was to be heard. 'Christian? You're here!'

Then an incredibly startled, '_Toulouse?_'

'I saw the poster! For the play! We thought you were dead, when we came back to your apartment you were gone, a lot of your stuff was there, but you weren't!'

'...well, I guess that answers "How did you find me"...'

'We were amazed,' Toulouse said joyously. 'Amazed that you were alive and doing so well for yourself! So we came to find you – well, I did, Satie and the Argentinean are out the front, shhh!'

Erik forced himself not to laugh at the stunned silence.

'Er, who _is _that?' asked Firmin.

'_What _is that?' muttered Andre.

'A friend of mine,' said Christian firmly. 'Toulouse, what are you doing here?'

'Have you been to the Moulin Rouge lately?'

People around started to whisper.

'No,' said Christian slowly.

'It's been renewed! Everyone is back, Zidler, the dancers – oh, and Christian –!'

Erik frowned. This was tilting in the wrong direction. If Christian went back to the Moulin Rouge – he wouldn't. But if he did, Erik wouldn't hesitate to follow him.

'What?' asked Christian, sounding completely confused.

'_Satine_ – _she's alive_!'

Erik shot up into a sitting position, feeling his blood run cold. Everything seemed to leave his head, his vision seemed to blur; everything was concentrating on what Toulouse had just said.

'Sat – Satine?' Christian said, sounding different. Like a miracle has just occurred. _No._

'She's alive!' Toulouse repeated.

Erik's vision returned; he blinked and noticed someone was looking at him from below. He turned his head and stared at Madame Giry, who was looking at him with a confused but sympathetic expression on her face.

Christian laughed in disbelief. 'My God, this is – this is _wonderful _–'

He couldn't breathe. He wasn't getting enough air. Christian hadn't just said that –

'And she wants to see you, right away!' Toulouse finished. 'Do you need him anymore?'

'Well...' a stunned Firmin said. 'I... I don't believe we need... you can take him...'

'Just hold on a minute,' Christian said, 'I'll be back.'

There were running footfalls, indicating Christian had left. Erik scrambled to his feet and ran as fast as he could to the writer's room.

Down below, Madame Giry watched as Meg and Christine exchanged horrified looks.

'He eez leaving?' asked Carlotta, sounding upset.

'I certainly hope not,' said Madame Giry.

'If he is, what's the bet someone's going to be dead tomorrow?' Meg said bitterly.

--

_Satine is alive_.

It seemed impossible. She had died in his arms. But Toulouse – Toulouse had said –

It was a miracle!

_She's alive!_

He picked up his bag, stuffed a few articles of clothing into it and a few other things – everything else was back in his apartment.

_She's alive, she's alive, she's alive, my God –_

'What's the happy occasion?'

Christian looked up to see Erik leaning against the mirror-frame, arms crossed, smiling. There was something amazingly forced about that smile but Christian ignored it.

'It's amazing! Satine's –'

'Alive. I heard.'

Christian was left unbelievably awkward. Oh, God, he'd forgotten all about what the hell he was going to do.

'Huh,' he said, looking back at his bag.

'Are you going somewhere?' Erik asked, interested.

'Nope,' said Christian, shaking his head.

Erik nodded, looking down at his feet. 'Could've fooled me,' he added, forcing a laugh.

Christian hesitated. What was he supposed to do? _Sorry, but the love of my life just appeared to be alive and I was leaving here to see her_? It didn't seem to work out.

'I'll be coming back,' he said, lamely.

'No, you won't,' Erik said, still smiling, like it was all a joke.

_Oh, God, _Christian realised. _He's furious. That's how he looked when he thought I loved Raoul – but I don't _love _anyone,_ he added hastily in his head. _Except Satine. But who wouldn't be furious in this situation? _

Nonetheless, he felt angry at the ghost. 'Right, because you know everything about me, including what I'm going to do in the future,' he snapped, standing up and turning towards the door.

Erik made it to the door before he did, blocking it. 'You have a tendency to trip when you're caught off-guard,' he ticked off on his fingers.

Christian tripped – then took a step back. _How did he even pick that up? _'Okay, one thing. Get out of my way.'

'I can't believe you,' Erik said hollowly.

'Oh, shut up,' said Christian angrily. 'You don't even trust me.'

'_Trust you_?' Erik repeated, arching an eyebrow. 'How did we get onto this?'

'You _don't, _you won't let me take off your mask.'

'You're acting like a child –'

'_I'm _acting like a child? Move!'

'I trust you fine!'

'Oh, really?' All Erik saw was a blur moving towards his mask. He caught Christian's wrist, perhaps a little too hard, and pulled it back down to his side.

'Ow!'

'What, you think I let everyone sleep with me?' Erik snarled, ignoring the past two comments and letting go of Christian's wrist.

'I didn't know I had to have your permission,' Christian shot back, rubbing his wrist. 'I barely know anything about you –'

'Which is more than everyone else knows!'

'I'm not _everyone else_, according to you!'

'Everyone who's seen my face has either tried to kill me or run off screaming,' Erik said in a dangerous voice.

'And why wouldn't you believe I wasn't going to do that?!' Christian yelled.

'Because look at you now!' Erik looked homicidal once again. He tried to calm himself down. 'You're leaving,' he growled. _Just like everyone else, story of my life. _'I thought you were different from _them_.'

'And did you really think I'd fallen in love with you?' Christian blinked and stared at the ghost. That was a plain-out lie. He didn't want to say that, it wasn't true, _I take it back – it's not true –!_

Erik froze. He let go of Christian's wrist and moved off to the side so Christian could get past, staring hard at the mirror.

Christian pushed past him nonetheless, moving out of his room and walking quickly down the staircase, not looking back.

--

As soon as Christian saw Toulouse again, he tried to push Erik out of his mind. His chest felt heavy and he ignored it. He smiled at the dwarf, who said excitedly, 'Are you ready?'

'Let's go,' said Christian. He noticed Madame Giry watching him with a disappointed expression on her face and he ignored it.

It was amazing walking out of the opera house. Christian felt somewhat vulnerable as he hadn't left it in a long time. The sun was amazing, even though it was cloudy, the people all around, the carts, the horses, the children. Suddenly everything snapped into shape and his small world was gone.

_And always will be, thanks to what you said to Erik_, a voice snapped.

Christian ignored it. Instead, he grinned at Toulouse. 'How've you been? _Where've _you been?'

'Ah, we've been in Europe this entire time,' Toulouse said. 'Many different adventures; the Argentinean married a woman who turned out to have a husband. Very... angry business. I never want to see a rolling pin again in my life.'

Christian laughed, starting to feel familiar with his surroundings. 'Toulouse – how is she alive?'

'She will tell you all about it,' Toulouse said, waving his hand. 'Look at you! How well you are doing – we thought you were dead when we came back, but instead you were putting on a show for the Opera Populaire!' Only the way he said it, it sounded like 'zee Op-wa Populaire'. He chuckled at the writer. 'Ah, Christian, much has probably happened in a year! We should discuss it, definitely after you see Satine.'

'And after she tells me how she's still alive,' Christian added, hardly able to believe it as they walked down streets he vaguely remembered. _And no way are you finding out about my love life. Love life, don't even THINK that. _

_What is wrong with you? What did you do back there?_

_Nothing that shouldn't have been done, _he thought furiously. _I did nothing wrong._

Then he stopped walking and blinked at Toulouse. An old man in rags sitting near them extended an empty cup and shook it sadly. 'This isn't some scandal for you to get me back to the Moulin Rouge, is it?'

Toulouse shook his head. 'No, no, no, no!'

'But she died in my arms,' Christian said slowly, fishing a coin out of his pocket and dropping it in the man's cup. The man thanked him but Christian barely noticed. _If he's lying, I've just ruined my life... _He shook his head, to correct himself. _Nothing's wrong. I don't care. I'll be seeing them soon, on opening night. _He felt sad for not saying goodbye to Meg, Christine and Madame Giry. Not Raoul.

_Don't think about them, you think about Er – the Opera Ghost_, he corrected himself. He doubted he was on first-name terms with the Ghost anymore. And he didn't care. And he should be listening to what Toulouse was saying.

'I thought she was dead too,' Toulouse continued. 'We all did. But now she is back, and we must go. She wished to see you as soon as possible. Remember, I only speak the truth!'

Christian burst out laughing as he remembered the magical sitar. 'God, how we came up with that...'

Then suddenly he knew where they were, and they went under the arch, up a few streets and arrived at the red windmill known as the Moulin Rouge.

'They did it up again,' Christian said in disbelief.

'Yes!' Toulouse nodded, grinning broadly, grabbing Christian's arm and pulling him along. His mind was buzzing with anxiety. _This can't be real – she's alive! – I can't believe this – Satine's alive –_

His head felt heavy for some reason, but it was not because of Satine. And he couldn't shake that other feeling from his chest.

They ran through the front doors, past the large elephant and up the steps, into where the magic happened and –

Christian could see a crowd of people he recognised; the Argentinean, Satie, the Doctor, Nini, Chocolat, Harold Zidler... all of them were crowded around, staring at someone, laughing, amazed, some crying (Nini actually looked bored and annoyed).

Then everything stopped and she turned around to stare at him.

He stared back at her. 'You're alive,' he managed.

Satine smiled flirtatiously and ran up to him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him. He moved back – _it felt wrong_, he almost thought – but she didn't notice, simply pulling back, burying her head in his shoulder and saying 'Christian! I missed you!'

'God, I missed you too,' he said, running a hand through her hair. He couldn't get that stupid heavy feeling to leave. 'How are you still alive?'

She laughed, hugging him tightly. He hugged her back. 'Oh, thank God.'

**--**

**Thank you for all the reviews so far! **


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**

Meg travelled down the passageways. She swallowed hard, hoping what she was doing was right. Or sane, at least.

Christian had not come back yesterday but Meg had known he wouldn't. She had a horrible suspicion that he wasn't going to come back until opening night. She couldn't understand how he could've been that cruel and found herself hating him as she walked down the passages.

She hated rats. They were nasty, furry wet things that always seemed to lurk in these kinds of dark, mouldy places. But she couldn't care less about them at the moment, as she was already completely terrified of meeting Erik.

In fact, should she even be doing this? Christine's version of Erik sounded different to Christian's, and she was more in Christine's place. She shivered. Why had Christian left? Satine didn't sound too amazing from her idea; she'd heard bits and pieces about the woman, she'd heard that Satine had died behind the red curtain as the audience cheered. She'd also heard she'd died in Christian's arms, and something about this didn't seem possible.

She stopped. How _was _it possible? What kind of idiot would go back to a woman who died right in front of him with no possible way of living? _God, he just keeps slipping from ghost to ghost. _Unless it had been she'd taken some kind of drug that made her sleep so deeply she seemed dead. But she'd obviously been there if Christian hadn't come back. Either that or he was dead.

She hoped not. Even if she hated him, she didn't want him dead. Why was she even going down to Erik? She shouldn't. How was Satine even _alive_? It wasn't possible. It seemed impossible. Meg smelled a rat.

And she stepped on one too.

As it squeaked underneath her, she screamed and jumped back. She could hear it scurrying away, shrieking its head off. She covered her mouth with her hand; so much for trying to be quiet. Erik would surely know of her approach now.

She tried to decide whether to leave or to keep going when someone grabbed her wrist. She screamed again.

'_Meg_!' her mother scolded. 'What are you _doing _down here?'

'I –'

'Do not try to talk to him – he won't hesitate to kill you.'

'What about you? Surely –'

'Meg,' said Madame Giry, shaking her head. 'It's no use. Whatever made you think he was going to act better?'

'I just wanted to help him,' Meg said pathetically. 'Christian's – _such _a –'

Madame Giry nodded and pulled Meg back down the passageways.

--

He felt sick when he woke up. He could hear Satine lying next to him, breathing deeply, calm, wonderful, alive but he felt like he was going to throw up. His stomach and head hurt unbelievably and his chest felt... wrong.

Christian sat up, already annoyed with himself. First, that he had a headache like this and he hadn't even touched any alcohol. And second –

_You can't go twelve hours without thinking about the Ghost, can you? _

He gritted his teeth; he didn't care. Not in the slightest. He didn't know if the last thing he said to Erik was true or not anymore – or he knew that it wasn't but he was refusing to believe it. He nearly punched a hole in the wall; _shut up! _

He looked over at Satine, who was sleeping. She seemed a little different, but he probably seemed different. She opened her eyes and smiled sleepily at him. He smiled back and moved to his feet.

Then she looked concerned. 'You look terrible,' she commented, tilting her head.

Christian gave her his best smile; quite possibly the one the Ghost had told him looked quite fake at some hour in the morning when they were asking each other questions at random.

'_First song you ever sang?'_

'_God, how am I supposed to remember this? Why don't you sing something?'_

'_Because I'm waiting for an answer,' Erik said, running his fingers through the writer's hair. _

'_No, give me another one,' Christian replied, his head resting on Erik's chest. He could practically feel the ghost roll his eyes. Christian grinned. 'Fine, I'll ask you one. First kiss?'_

_He felt the ghost's hand tense. Then 'No way in hell, writer.'_

'_Come on!' Christian raised his head so he could look at Erik better. 'Okay, next question I have to answer, no matter what, okay?'_

'_First kiss?' Erik said, arching an eyebrow._

_Christian stared at him then grinned._

_Erik snorted. 'And that's not a fake smile if I ever saw one.'_

'_Only because you're unfair.' – _

He told himself to shut up and Satine giggle at his smile. 'Just because you wake up looking brilliant every morning,' he told her.

'If only,' Satine sighed, stretching. She looked cat-like.

He tried not to feel so nauseous and sat down again, clapping his hand to his forehead. Satine blinked. 'Forget something?'

'Uh. Yeah. My... typewriter.'

Satine laughed, rubbing his back. 'Well, think about it, you couldn't have brought something like that with you! We'll get it soon.'

He stared at her. 'Satine... how are you alive?'

She blinked then smiled at him. 'I'll tell you another time.'

'Um, actually,' Christian said, a little annoyed, 'it's been a year. And I thought you were dead this entire time. So an explanation would be great.'

She placed a chaste kiss on his lips. He didn't have the time to kiss her back. 'Patience is a virtue, possess it if you can.'

'Always in a woman, never in a man,' said Christian, rolling his eyes. 'Right.'

Satine smiled, nodded then stretched again. She really was beautiful. 'I'm going to go find Harold. I need to talk to him about a few things.'

'So are you... back in business?' Christian asked.

She smiled at him. 'Things to talk about, Christian. I'm not sure if Harold wants me to. I certainly hope not.'

'If he does then just say no,' Christian replied, shrugging.

'And forget his hospitality? I can't.' She gave him a sad look and moved onto all fours so she could lean across the bed easily, kissing him again. He felt the nausea hit him, wave after wave, but continued to smile after she pulled back.

'Bye,' Satine said, smiling flirtatiously at him and crawling back off the bed, waving behind her as she opened the door, slipped through it and closed it, disappearing from his current life.

Christian let his head fall back on the pillow, grimacing. God, his head hurt. And his stomach wasn't helping. Was it his stomach? He didn't know, it all just seemed to hurt, from his neck down to stomach. _What's wrong with you? _

And what had Satine just said? That she cared about Zidler's hospitality after he'd basically sold her to the Duke? But Harold was an exceptionally nice person on the other hand.

He felt really sick. They'd stayed in the Elephant last night. He could see where he'd first sang 'Your Song' to Satine, out on the balcony. There was the table, filled with various alcoholic beverages. Had he had some of those? He didn't think so. In fact, he didn't really know what to make of last night. He just remembered walking in here, Satine falling onto the bed next to him with a pout and showering his face and neck in kisses, taking off his jacket. He'd been more surprised when he'd sat up.

'Hold on,' Christian said, putting a little distance between them.

Satine blinked then looked mad. 'What?'

'Nothing,' Christian said quickly. 'It's just...' _What is it? _'I thought you were dead. And. I don't really want. Not right now.'

How any of that even made sense was beyond him. But Satine looked understanding and said, 'All right. Goodnight, darling.'

He'd felt odd last night and he felt worse this morning. He didn't want to think about it.

And then he wondered, only for a second, where the Ghost might have been as he sang to Satine.

--

He was on the last page.

This was Christian's story – he'd taken it again at least a week ago, left it somewhere and forgotten about it. He hated reading it, hated every second of it and yet he couldn't seem to do anything else.

He hated reading it because it was simply telling him how stupid he was to think anything could really have happened between them. Here it was, an entire novel and play devoted to Satine. God, the more he thought about it: 'Your Song', for Satine –

(_shutupshutupshutup_)

How could he have been _that _stupid?

(_didyoureally_)

He found himself at the last few sentences.

(_didyoureallythinkI'd_)

The story about the woman he loved.

(_'And did you really think I'd fallen in love with you?'_)

The pages had been thrown in disarray around the underground home – or hell, whichever he decided to call it. He barely noticed that he was ripping the last page into shreds or that there was broken glass sticking into the back of his arm.

_That's just great, break everything you see, so what? What's going to happen? It won't do anything._

'Shut up,' Erik muttered.

_You're an idiot – you don't create things you can't finish, or things that barely start, God, you're such an –_

'I said _SHUT UP_,' Erik snarled, putting his head in his hands. His back was pressed up against the odd carving of the bed, oh, great, another reminder of what a failure he was. The only thing that seemed to have survived was a small monkey with cymbals.

He removed his mask – it was cutting into his face, not that that really mattered. But no one was here, so he didn't need to really hide what he was. He didn't do anything about the pain in his arm and rested the mask on the bed behind him. It was something that reminded him he wasn't dead and that probably was a bit of a pity.

'I belong in Hell,' he told himself.

--

'Christian!' cried Toulouse as the writer appeared in the doorway to their flat. 'What are you doing here? Surely you would be spending all your time with Satine right now –?'

Christian was about to answer when the Argentinean appeared quite suddenly in front of him and hugged him incredibly tightly. So tightly, in fact, that Christian wondered exactly how long it would be before he would really need to breathe again.

The Argentinean let go quickly and said, 'Nothing funny. I just missed you.'

Christian couldn't help but grin. 'So, you got married?'

'Who told you that?' the Argentinean said, looking suddenly hostile.

Christian looked innocent. 'Oh. No one. I was guessing.'

'Christian!' yelled Satie, standing up from his piano while Toulouse tried to interject once again. 'Fantastic, you're here! But where is Satine –?'

'Where's the Doctor?' Christian asked, looking around. It was exactly how he remembered it, only a little dustier (and a few windows were broken). Nonetheless, it looked occupied. Christian thought about telling them about the ladder to the alcove...

... and decided not to. They probably already knew, anyway.

'Didn't want to come back,' the Argentinean said, and by now he had shifted back to the other side of the room, where he'd been standing before. He didn't sound the least bit regretful. In fact, none of them really looked regretful. Christian wasn't too hung up about it – he still felt pretty sick. And he hadn't really understood what he was doing here instead of finding Satine.

He swayed a little on his feet as he felt nauseas again. Everyone just so happened to notice this and told him at once to sit down.

'Is something wrong?' asked Satie, looking concerned, as the writer dropped into a chair.

'What? No,' Christian said, smiling again. He felt wrong; like something was rotting inside of him.

'As I saying _before_,' Toulouse said, giving Satie a glare, 'where is Satine?'

'Er. Talking to Zidler?'

'Erm... Wonderful!' said Toulouse, clapping his hands together. 'Why are you not together?'

Christian shrugged.

'As a lover, you should be more poetic than that,' the Argentinean scoffed. His eyes rolled back into his head and he sprawled onto a chair, looking rather boneless.

Christian ignored it. 'Why didn't the Doctor come back?' he asked, resting an elbow on his knees and his head in his hand.

'In a quick summary, he said we were idiots and that we would someday get ourselves killed and he didn't want to die like that,' Satie said brightly. It didn't sound sarcastic; it was just stating the truth.

Toulouse looked confused. 'So, how is she alive?' the dwarf asked.

Christian shook his head and felt worse. That hurt unbelievably. 'She didn't tell me.'

'Ah,' Toulouse said, winking, 'because last night you were too busy to talk?'

'Er. Not... really,' Christian said, feeling like he was not on top of things. He stared hard at the floor when Satie and Toulouse stared at him. The Argentinean's head propped up. 'You didn't sleep with her?!' he asked then lost consciousness again.

'Well, when you think someone's been dead this entire time, it's a little bit strange, isn't it?' Christian said irritably. Fortunately this seemed to be a good enough answer for the others.

_What do you mean 'a good enough answer'? That's the real reason_, he thought angrily. He had to stop having arguments in his head. If that was the way everything would go, he was sure he'd lose his mind.

Toulouse laughed, a little nervously. 'Well, why don't we go find Satine?'

'I'm... not feeling too good,' said Christian, holding his head in both hands now. He was sure that if he stood up he'd fall back down.

'What's wrong?' asked Satie, sounding confused.

'What hurts?' asked Toulouse.

Christian wished he hadn't gotten out of bed. 'Head. And my chest. Well, everything really.'

There was a long silence Christian didn't notice because of the... it wasn't pain. It was more like aching. _If this is something to do with yesterday... _

He immediately blocked that thought. It had nothing to do with yesterday. He hated that thought more than anything. Except for perhaps the Opera Ghost.

_There IS no Opera Ghost_, he reminded himself. None of that had happened. He was in love with Satine, always had been, and _always_ would be.

He heard muttering which probably meant the other three (now) were talking about this. He felt wrong. He should be looking for Satine.

'Monsieur,' said the Argentinean, grasping his attention, 'we are only wondering, but... have you had any lovers while you thought Satine was dead?'

Christian's elbow slipped of his knee and stared at them. '_What_?'

'It is only a question,' Toulouse said, waving his hands – all forgotten.

'_What _kind of question?' Christian said, staring at them. 'No – no, there isn't.'

They stared at him again and the writer wondered if he'd said something wrong.

'Isn't?' said Satie slowly.

'Wasn't, isn't,' Christian said, shrugging. It didn't seem like a mistake anyone would really pick up.

'The boy is lovesick,' said the Argentinean finally, nodding.

Christian stood up, his nausea forgotten in his anger. '_Lovesick? _How can I be _lovesick _if I'm with the person I'm in love _with_? Nothing _happened _while I thought Satine was dead! What _could _have happened?'

'You could have fallen in love with someone,' Toulouse pointed out in a small voice.

'Right, because I'm in love with Erik,' Christian said, rolling his eyes and sitting back down moodily.

'Erik?' the Argentinean asked, frowning. Christian blinked. 'Oh – right, you don't know... her....'

'Erik sounds like a man's name,' Satie said, shaking his head and looking at the other two.

'She's... in the play. Erik's short for Erika,' Christian said hastily, feeling worse and worse as the time went by.

'Oh, I see!' said Satie, nodding and smiling. Toulouse clapped his hands together. 'Ah, Christian, but why this Erik?'

'I just see her every day. I don't have feelings for Erik... I've never... no, I love Satine. I was just using... her as an example.'

'He's lovesick,' the Argentinean confirmed.

'I am not!' Christian said hotly. 'If I am, maybe I'm used to the way things were just before it ended and I half want to get back to that and half take it slow.'

'With Erik?' Satie said, blinking.

Christian felt himself blushing – that was something that didn't happen now. It was just odd to know what they were really talking about – a ghost. 'No! With _Satine_ – okay, understand me: I – am – in – love – with – Satine. Okay?'

'Okay, okay,' said Toulouse as the Argentinean opened his mouth to disagree. 'You are in love with Satine. Of course he is, we never doubted it for a _moment_.'

'Not for more than three seconds,' said the Argentinean, nodding.

'Please faint,' said Christian, staring at him. 'Right now.'

The Argentinean waited. After a few moments he said, 'Nope. Not happening.'

Christian shook his head and nearly fell over again. Now that his anger was gone, his pounding head was back. He rolled his eyes. 'The stupid thing is that this just reminded me of how much I missed you.'

'Well, your play shall be on in a week!' said Toulouse happily. 'Less than a week – six days.'

Christian nodded while Toulouse ran to get some kind of drink to toast him. Six days before Satine saw their story in front of her eyes. And before he did too. He gladly took the drink, even though it was still morning.

--

**Please review? Hope you liked... or hated... :(**


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

It seemed like he was always the object of attention at some point during the week. At the Opera Populaire, he was disappearing and appearing quite often. He was surprised no one had added something up. But that was life in a superstitious world; if it's not normal, everyone laps it up.

But back at the Moulin Rouge, people seemed to be watching him wherever he went. He didn't really care anymore but it was a little unnerving nonetheless.

He walked up the wooden staircase, thinking about how different this all was from the opera house. It had been a strange time there. But here he was again, back in the Moulin Rouge. Only this time there was no Duke, no death, nothing to rip Satine away from him.

A few women in heavy make-up that were lazing on the stairs looked up and smiled at him. 'Mornin', Christian,' said one brightly.

'Heard you had a spin at the Opera Populaire, hey?' asked another, nodding.

Christian smiled at them. 'Yeah, a very strange place to live.'

'Better than here?' asked one, curling a strand of hair around her finger.

'Of course not,' Christian said, shaking his head. The girls giggled and one said 'Satine's up there,' as she extended a finger up the staircase.

'Thanks,' said Christian, his chest feeling heavy. He ran up the stairs, unable to wait to see Satine.

The Argentinean had not dropped the conversation until finally coming to an idea that Christian felt, _perhaps_, guilt mixed in with the lovesickness, which Christian strongly objected he had. He hated the Ghost and loved Satine. He probably felt guilty, but not lovesick.

He was about to open the door when it was flung open. A young man who looked severely angry walked out the door, pushing past Christian and growling to himself. He was dressed in expensive clothes and his hair was sandy. He was down the staircase and out of sight within a second.

Christian looked through the open door at Satine in one of her expressive gowns, who was glaring determinedly after the man. His heart didn't soar at the sight of her but he was taking some time to realise she was alive again. When she saw Christian she snapped, 'What?'

'Who was that?' asked Christian, arching an eyebrow.

Satine blinked and said in a different voice, 'No one, Christian.'

'That didn't look like no one,' said Christian slowly.

'He heard I was here and wanted... you know. I told him no.'

'Oh,' said Christian, nodding.

'Yes,' said Satine. They stood there for a while as Christian added it up in his head.

'So Harold said you didn't have to... anymore...'

'He said to do whatever would make us happy!' Satine cried, jumping over the bed and latching onto him, pressing her lips against his and tilting her head. He was slightly surprised at this and nearly pulled away at the sudden contact but she grabbed his neck and deepened the kiss. His chest felt worse and his mind seemed to be suddenly on some kind of adrenaline rush, flicking through pictures, voices, scenes...

'Christian?' Satine asked, pulling back and looking confused. Her lipstick was smudged so he probably would have some on his face. He ignored his head and grinned at her. His face hurt. 'Yes?'

'You seem a little... tense,' Satine said, hanging her arms around his neck.

'I don't feel too good today,' Christian said, shrugging.

Satine frowned. 'Oh, poor baby.'

'Er.' How did he react to that again? He couldn't really picture anyone ever saying that to him (he felt he would've reacted better to 'you idiot. Why?'). Was this something new of Satine's? 'Can you tell me where you were?' he asked. 'All this time?'

Satine smiled mischievously. 'All in good time, love.'

--

'Do you reckon someone might die today?' asked Meg, glaring at the floor. She and Christine were both sitting on the Countess's bed; Meg had her arms and legs crossed and she was hunched over, scowling downwards.

'It's definitely possible, I'll give you that,' Christine replied bitterly. She was sitting in a much more upright position, one hand on her stomach. _I'm having a baby... _

'How _could _he?' Meg said. 'You can't just leave in the middle of a relationship to go back to a dead romance!'

'I think it's either one ghost or another. And I don't think Christian or Erik would be pleased we're talking about this,' Christine said, shaking her head. 'But I am actually surprised no one died yesterday or the day before that.'

'That's it,' Meg said, standing up and moving to the door, 'I'm off to the Moulin Rouge –'

'You are _not_,' Christine said flatly, jumping up and grabbing Meg's arm, pulling her back. 'You can't go! Your mother doesn't want you to interfere.'

'I won't be talking to Erik, I'll be talking to Christian,' snapped Meg. 'Mother won't mind about that. She just doesn't want the ghost to kill me.'

'Not today,' said Christine, shaking her head so hard her dark curls hit the sides of her face. 'They're rehearsing all the ballet today. You can't.'

Meg stared at her. 'So what do we do?'

'Tomorrow – tomorrow I'll go to the Moulin Rouge. I'll talk to him.'

'And what about me?' Meg asked, frowning. 'It was my idea!'

'He doesn't need someone to yell at him right now, he needs someone to just tell him calmly that he is a complete idiot,' Christine said firmly.

'Of course he needs someone to yell at him!' Meg said angrily.

'Not right now. When he does, I'll get you to help, I promise.'

Meg glared at her then sighed, 'Okay, fine. Why not today, though?'

Christine stared at her. 'Meg. _Rehearsals_.'

--

Even though he was exhausted, even though he felt terrible, as soon as Christian sat down on the bed he felt wide-awake. His mind felt perhaps a little clearer, but his chest felt just the same. Satine pulled the covers over her and snuggled down; not, he noticed, against him, but just curled up by herself. It didn't seem awkward though and he was fine with that.

Glancing at Satine then to the open balcony of the Elephant, he unbuttoned his shirt and let it drop to the floor. He felt hot all of a sudden. Maybe he was coming down with something...

_I'm not lovesick_, he told himself. _Or guilty, I don't want to hear it. _

He lay down, pillowing his head in his hands and staring up at the ceiling. It was too warm to cover himself in blankets. He sighed; he wouldn't be getting to sleep anytime soon. He didn't know how Satine could stand it.

Maybe he _was _coming down with something. It would figure well enough why he felt sick. Of course! It wasn't guilt or anything else, he was just probably sick. Amazingly enough, that thought seemed incredibly comforting.

Sitting up and slipping out of bed, he walked out to the balcony, up the staircase that wound up the corner of the elephant's head and sat down, not on the seats, but cross-legged on the ground.

It _was _cooler out here; the stars were wonderful and the moon – though it was not smiling at him, in fact it seemed to be frowning – was shining brightly.

Did he have to ever think about what he'd put the Opera Ghost through again? He groaned, put his head in his hands and said fiercely 'Stop it. This won't help you. It's over, nothing ever happened and you never have to think about it again.'

_That's not true. Did you or did you not just ruin someone's life?_

'Ruin his life?' Christian laughed, but he didn't know why he was laughing; he felt angry that the question had come up in his mind. 'How could I ruin his life? He obviously didn't care enough about me to trust me...'

_Okay. You're saying he didn't trust you... but he slept with you numerous times –_

'I'm not finishing that thought,' Christian said, looking up at the sky. His chest was aching hard from the thought of all this. _It should be my head, maybe I'm _really_ sick_. 'I'm not going on with this.'

The stars, the bright silver sparkles that lit up the black that slowly faded outwards to blue at the corners of the sky as it disappeared behind buildings, had no comment.

It was starting to get colder. He rubbed his hands together and half-wished he had brought his shirt out.

Something behind him rustled and he whipped around, ready to – do something.

But it was only a bird, chirping as it flapped its wings hard, up into the sky, not giving him any sign either.

'Well, there you have it,' Christian shrugged, 'when you've got a problem like this, no one is going to help you.'

Within minutes he was back in the bed, feeling sleepier and colder but not better.

--

The next morning however he'd managed to feel somewhat better; he rolled over to say good morning to Satine –

– Only she wasn't there.

Christian blinked, staring at the empty space next to him. He wasn't too worried about where she was, nor, to his surprise, that she wasn't lying there with him.

His chest gave him a dull reminder it was aching and he told it to shut up. He rolled out of the bed, his head feeling clearer than yesterday. He was about to pull the shirt he'd been wearing yesterday on when he just decided not to. He had quite a lot of time to do nothing so finding a clean shirt and wearing that instead wouldn't be hard.

It wasn't, but for some reason, it seemed harder to do nothing than usual.

He stood out on the balcony for a while, the morning air only slightly chilly, looking up at the sun. It was something he definitely hadn't seen up close for some time. He'd either been in the Opera House or under –

He turned quickly and decided to get out of the Elephant – he opened the door, leaving the exotic Indian room behind, running quickly down a carpeted spiralling staircase and leaving it altogether. He could either leave the Moulin Rouge and go to his apartment or go find Satine.

He was surprised he was making a choice about that. _Satine_, he thought, shaking his head, turning to walk further into the Moulin Rouge –

Christian did not expect the first person he'd see that morning would be Harold Zidler. Nor did he expect that the first person he saw that morning would also be the first person he'd walk into that day.

As he basically bounced back, he looked up at Harold and didn't know whether to smile or be wary; Zidler was a nice man, it was simply that he could be pushed to do not very nice things. Such as sell Satine to the Duke. That hadn't been a good start.

Zidler smiled down at him, his ginger moustache sticking out. 'Christian!'

'Morning, Harold –'

'It's so _wonderful _to see you again!' Zidler, already a big man, seemed to just make himself bigger with his gestures and his emphasis in speech. 'We hear you've been at the Opera Populaire!'

'Indeed I have,' Christian shrugged, grinning a little. He'd missed this place.

'Wonderful! Do you know how many people will be coming to your play?'

'Not really –'

'No chance you could fire up some more ideas that we could show here, could you?' Zidler asked, waving his hand around. 'You are a splendid young writer!'

'I could give it a go. Um, do you have any idea how Satine's –?'

'Alive?' Zidler finished. 'Only God knows! And her, of course, dear boy, why don't you _ask _her?'

'Because she won't really _answer_,' Christian said without thinking.

'Ah, well, maybe you'll never know?' Zidler shrugged, only it seemed like he was doing some kind of dance move perhaps because of the attention drawn to this one shrug. 'But keep your mind open! The Moulin Rouge could use some extra money, hm?' Zidler clapped Christian on the back and Christian winced. 'So, how long until opening night?'

'I think... five days?'

'Ha! Wonderful! We shall make sure everyone is there, _absolutely everyone_!'

'Okay. Thank you.'

Zidler laughed and turned to walk back into the Moulin Rouge, not looking behind him once. Christian waited until Zidler has disappeared before he followed.

Where was Satine?

The dance floor was empty unless you counted the few girls sitting in the booths, talking about some kind of 'secret celebration' Zidler was throwing, if Christian heard right. He didn't really care; he knew what he should be doing at the moment was finding Satine.

Then why did he want to leave the Moulin Rouge for the day? He wanted to spend a day in actual Paris, not in some kind of prison world where as soon as you walk into it you become entangled.

He thought hard. Where would he go if he left the Moulin Rouge for a day?

Christian felt a sudden pang to go to the Opera Populaire. Specifically _under _the Opera Populaire –

'Oh, God,' he hissed, putting his head in his hands. What was wrong with him? 'I have to find Satine,' he said finally, trying to move towards the staircases.

But something stopped him. Perhaps it was that Toulouse, Satie and the Argentinean had just appeared at the other side of the room and he wasn't in the mood for an interrogation. Maybe it was Nini, who was staring at him through heavily made-up eyes, as if he was missing something so important that was happening here, like she had often to the Duke when it was Christian and Satine's 'Secret Romance'.

Or maybe it was that suddenly he felt he was going to throw up for no reason.

He turned and ran out, past the Elephant, through the doors, to the real outside –

After about three minutes, eighty deep breaths and at least three gagging attempts, he managed to calm himself down. _What _had that been?

He heard footsteps and tried to stand up; thankfully, he managed.

And his jaw dropped.

Christine smiled politely at him. 'Good morning, Christian.'

--

**:O Am I laughing evilly right now? Sh-yeah.**

**Hope you enjoy reading! Thanks again for the wonderful reviews! **


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty Two**

She was simply standing there in the middle of the street, wearing a black hooded cloak over her dress. She smiled at Christian again, this time a little less brightly.

Christian was thankful she'd turned up just after he'd tried not to throw up. 'What are you doing here?' he asked, bewildered. He couldn't believe how glad he was to see her.

'I was just... wondering how you are,' Christine said, nodding and looking down at the dirty roads.

Christian took a moment to take in the view; the clouds, the sky, the sun. He felt a little calmer. He knew the Countess was not happy with him. 'How're you?'

'Good,' Christine said, a little distantly. The writer had never really seen her miss a chance to talk about herself.

'The baby?' asked Christian, grinning a little.

Christine smiled back at him and this time it didn't look fake. 'Raoul and I are so excited.'

'I'm glad for you,' Christian said, nodding at her. She continued to nod then suddenly threw her arms around him.

'Oh _God _what is wrong with you why did you go? Meg wants to _kill _you, Madame Giry can't believe you, _I _can't believe and Erik –!'

'Don't,' Christian said sharply, unable to push her off but unable to fully hug her; she always found this way to just latch on. 'Um.'

'And we really miss you,' Christine said, pulling back. Her eyes were red and the writer blinked in surprise. Christine didn't _cry_. She was happy all the time; unbelievably happy to a point where it became excruciating torture.

He managed a half smile. 'I don't think you _all _miss me –'

'Well, we're all angry at you! And we miss you! Oh, and Carlotta's gone into depression.'

'Oh, God,' Christian said and the soprano managed a watery laugh. 'Don't worry – the managers just have to give her things. Why aren't you back? Aren't you going to visit?'

'I'll wait til opening night.'

'And then will you _ever _come back? The managers haven't received anything from Erik and there have been no murders. We think he might be – dead.'

'He's a ghost, he can deal with it,' he snapped.

'That's terrible!' Christine said, shaking her head and looking as if she were about to cry again.

'I'm great where I am,' Christian said heatedly. He felt a little bad after he saw Christine was on the brink of tears again. 'But of course I miss you,' he added softly. 'I miss everything about the Opera Populaire. But I think I just belong here at the Moulin Rouge.'

Christine sniffled and tried to compose herself. 'Well,' she said in a quavering tone and stopped. She waited a moment then said steadily, 'How have you been here?'

'Good,' said Christian, nodding. 'I miss all of you –'

'How's Satine alive?'

'I wish she'd tell me.'

'She won't _tell you_?'

'She's just waiting, so she's going to tell me in a day or something! She's working on it, I think, which is more than I can say for the Ghost,' he added bitterly.

Christine sighed. 'What happened that put him in the wrong? You left!'

'I'm not talking about this.'

'Yes you are! We are drifting into the conversation whether you like it or not! What – happened?'

'He didn't tell me _anything _– I barely know anything about him!'

'I'm sure you probably know a lot about him!'

Christian did know a lot about the Opera Ghost but it had been things he'd picked up or things the Ghost had mentioned briefly, such as he talked in his sleep. Usually about Christian. _Don't think about that –! _

'He wouldn't take off his mask,' Christian deadpanned.

Christine stared at him. 'Is this what it's about?'

'What? I've never even seen his full face!'

'Christian!'

'It doesn't matter anymore. I'm with Satine and I love her.'

'Why wouldn't he let you take off his mask, do you think?' Christine asked, glaring at him.

'Because he already thought I was going to leave, no matter what. If I ever tried to take it off, he'd always change the subject or just tell me everyone who'd seen his face had either tried to kill him or scream at him, something like that.'

'But don't you see?'

'See what? That he didn't trust me?!'

'No,' Christine said helplessly, laying a hand on Christian's shoulder; he'd been getting steadily louder and people were starting to stare. 'That it's his own mixed-up way of really not wanting to lose you.' She sighed. 'It's not a particularly great way and it's kind of insane, but that's just Erik for you.'

Christian stared at her. 'Well, can't do anything about it now. I just told you. I love Satine.'

Christine sighed again, shakily, as if she were holding back tears. Then she glared at him. 'Well I _hope _you enjoy it here. I guess I will see you on opening night then, God only knows when else!'

Christian gaped at her. 'Hey –'

'I hope you're happy, even though I can't imagine how! Just stay here in a _brothel_ and have all the glory you want!' With that, she turned and stormed away down the streets, turning and disappearing from his sight. Christian stared after her, unable to really take in what just happened.

'What glory?' he managed softly, almost to himself.

He realised nearly everyone in the street was staring at him. He felt a blush creeping up his neck and raised one eyebrow.

Everyone in the street looked away and continued walking.

'_Monsieur_,' said a little girl, blinking up at with large eyes, 'aren't you from the opera house?'

Christian smiled at her and she smiled back, popping her thumb into her mouth. 'I hope you get better,' the girl said, muffled over her thumb.

'Are you okay to get home?'

'My mummy's in a shop over there.' The girl had long beautiful blond hair and reminded him of Meg.

'Alice!' screeched an older, taller version of the blond girl sucking her thumb. She ran over and picked up the girl, glaring at Christian. '_Don't _go near there!' she told her little girl then snapped at the writer, 'Go drink absinthe or something!'

Christian shrugged at her, glaring back. She turned on her heel and put the little girl down on the ground. Alice turned around and waved at the writer. ''ank you,' she called.

Christian grinned and turned around to walk through the doors, back into the Moulin Rouge. He really should have found Satine by now.

But he barely paid attention to a single thing he was doing. All he could really think about was Christine's conversation. He didn't want to believe what she'd told him. He didn't care. Not anymore.

As soon as he walked back past the Elephant and into the dance room, where he'd come in so long ago and found the Sparkling Diamond, he saw that some kind of gossip was buzzing around. He hoped no one had seen Christine as they would probably think it was 'Erika', if Toulouse had spread the word; which he would've if he'd heard Christian had just been talking to another woman who he seemed on quite good terms with.

'What's going on?' Christian asked Satie, who was polishing his glasses. He blinked at Christian, squinted, said 'Oh!' and put his glasses back on, smiling. 'It's amazing! Zidler has just announced –'

'Zidler has just announced,' interrupted Toulouse, appearing around their knees, 'that there shall be a party in four nights time!'

'That's the night before the play,' Christian said, looking back up at Satie but really just speaking to himself.

'Yes, yes!' Toulouse nodded. 'It's for Satine's return and for your play and many toasts to happy long lives and drinks and women!' He laughed, raised the wine bottle he was holding and said 'It is wonderful!'

Christian couldn't help but grin at Toulouse. The dwarf was an absolute maniac.

'It's also too early in the day for that,' he added, but Toulouse simply shook it off. The crowd around him was starting to get excited with all the talk and some people were dancing all ready.

'Oh, and of course, we're all coming to the play,' Satie said formally, smiling at Christian.

'Really?' said Christian, raising his eyebrows.

'Well, why wouldn't we?' asked the Argentinean, appearing out of nowhere. 'We want to see to it that we have good parts in the play.'

Christian laughed. Then 'Have anyone of you seen Satine?'

'Ah, up the staircase!' Toulouse pointed to a wooden staircase down a hallway stuffed with old boxes full of costumes and, quite possibly, trousers. Christian thanked him and took off at full speed down the hallway and up the staircase. It creaked angrily at every step he took, but all he could think of was how much he needed to see Satine so he could get his mind off of what Christine had told him. Once he saw Satine it would be all right.

He entered into a worn out hallway. The walls were chipped and faded pink with ugly stains on them. This place obviously wasn't used much. Christian wondered why Satine was up here and where she could possibly be; there were millions of doors.

He heard talking and, simply because there was nothing else to do, he listened.

'– _This has to stop, Harold –'_

Christian, now interested upon hearing Satine's voice, moved closer towards the door it seemed to be coming from. But no sooner had he walked towards the door had it burst open.

An angry Satine, dressed in a silver gown, stormed past him, ignoring him completely. She was pouting, her blue eyes glaring in front of her. Through the door, Christian could see a helpless but somewhat stern Zidler staring after her. He gave Christian a cheap smile and the writer turned to run after Satine, who was already thundering down the staircase.

'Who does he think he _is –_?!'

'Satine?'

She froze. Then she turned slowly and looked up at Christian. They stared at each other for a few moments, her eyes blank and his confused. Satine cleared her throat then smiled tightly, shaking her head so that her hair cascaded over her shoulders. 'Hello there,' she said huskily.

'What's he making you do?' asked Christian, arching an eyebrow.

'Oh, nothing darling,' said Satine, advancing on him with two steps, grabbing his shirt and pulling him down the staircase.

'I can move myself,' he said irritably, pulling his shirt out of her hand. She glared at him for a moment, blinked and smiled again. 'I know, sorry. It's just – I feel like I'm about to lose you again.' She pouted, looked down at the ground and sighed dramatically. 'Did you hear about the celebration?'

'Who's invited?' asked Christian.

'Everyone,' Satine replied, smiling brilliantly – her actress smile – and cocking her hip. 'Everyone can come if they want to. It's a party and we're all celebrating our reunion.'

'Oh.'

'Oh?'

'Oh!' said Christian, with much more enthusiasm. Satine smiled at him, leaned forwards and kissed him quickly, so that their lips barely touched. 'I'll see you later I guess,' she whispered, smiling flirtatiously at him. With that, she moved to walk down the stairs again, swivelling her hips as she walked, obviously wanting to draw his attention.

The only problem was he couldn't concentrate, even though he felt he should.

--

'When did Zidler decide to throw this celebration?' Christian asked Toulouse as he sat down for dinner at Toulouse's flat.

Toulouse laughed. 'Some say this morning; others say when you first came back!' He gave Christian a plate with some kind of exotic food on it and fell down next to Christian on a couch draped with patterned blankets. 'So, how have things been going?'

'Oh, good.' Christian looked behind him to see the sunset through the glass windows; the oranges, yellows and pinks were beating up at the blue-greys that were currently taking over the sky's colour. Rooftops were turning golden from the effect.

Toulouse arched an eyebrow at the writer. 'Oh, really?'

'_Fine_, Toulouse,' Christian added, shaking his head and turning back.

'Really?'

'Yes.'

'No more lovesickness?'

'It's not _lovesickness_.' Christian glanced around at the flat, which was covered in objects once again; instruments, clothes, papers, empty bottles. But not all bottles, he noticed, were empty; there were some filled with absinthe with a little green fairy logo on the front, worn and cracked.

'So have you two...?' Toulouse's voice trailed off.

Christian stared at the floor. 'No,' he said firmly.

'Ah. Her choice?'

'Mine.'

Toulouse sounded surprised. 'Ah – I see! Why?'

'It's personal.' Yeah, right, _it's personal_. The real reason was that he didn't know. No, he _did_ know; because she'd been dead and they both wanted to take their time. It was normal.

'Hm,' Toulouse agreed, shovelling food into his mouth. Christian suddenly felt wrong again and casually put his plate on the floor. 'So, how are you?'

'Great! It's like we are all a family again, only better! No Duke! Now you are free to be lovers publicly!'

'Yeah,' Christian agreed, forcing himself to grin even though he felt slightly sick. He leaned back into the furniture, trying to stop his head from spinning by closing his eyes. His chest was pounding. _You're not helping_, he told it angrily.

'Are you all right?' Toulouse's voice floated in, sounding concerned. Christian blinked, ignoring the feeling. It was sinking down to become bearable. 'Yeah, I'm fine,' he said, grinning again. 'Just... not very hungry.'

The sun had set by now and clouds were moving across the sky, the colour of dark bruises.

--

Christian didn't know why that as soon as he'd left Toulouse's flat he went straight to his own.

The door creaked loudly. His footsteps raised faint clouds of dust. The moon had cast some kind of light over the room, white shapes merging into the grey that faded whenever a cloud passed over. He shrugged and sat down on the bed. There might have been something living in it for all he knew, but he didn't worry about that too much.

He didn't understand exactly what was happening in his life at the moment. Today had been added up to confusion. First Zidler, Christine, the celebration, Satine... it wasn't making sense.

He looked at his feet. Maybe he wasn't used to Moulin Rouge life just yet. He'd been away for a while. It would make perfect sense if he'd forgotten it.

Something moved past one of his windows.

Christian's head snapped up. He was on his feet within a second, moving towards the glassless windows and looking out, swivelling his head from side to side. There was no one out here. He blinked and sighed, trying to ignore the fact his heart was pounding. He groaned to himself and moved back into his flat. _Stop it – this is getting ridiculous. _

There was a crack like a whip from the sky and thunder gave a dull warning. Christian looked back out the window. The moon had disappeared, swallowed up by the clouds, encasing everything in a dark blue. The rain started to fall fairly lightly and Christian decided it was time to get back to the Elephant.

--

The first thing she saw when she walked in was Christian standing out on the balcony, somewhat oblivious to the pouring rain as it hammered onto his pale silhouette and that he was drenched. He also happened to not be wearing a shirt.

'What are you doing?' she asked, frowning.

Christian gave up staring at the blackness in front of him. He turned around and saw Satine staring at him, one eyebrow raised. He felt like an idiot, but for some reason he also felt like he was burning up and the rain, which had been bucketing down moments ago.

'Um.'

'How long have you been there?'

'Only ten minutes?'

'You'll get sick,' Satine warned him, shaking her head.

'And _how_ you are not soaked from walking here is...?' Christian trailed off.

Satine smiled. 'Handy things called umbrellas,' she said, falling down on the bed and pulling the covers over her. 'Urgh, I'm so _tired._'

'Why?' Christian walked in, dried his top half off with a towel and ruffled it through his hair for a few moments. He let it drop to the floor and he sat down next to Satine, smiling softly at her. 'I haven't seen you all day, basically.'

Satine smiled sleepily back at him, entwining her fingers with his. 'Just talking to Zidler – and others.' She yawned, closing her eyes. 'Did you hear they're throwing a celebration for you?'

'I think it's for us,' Christian shrugged.

'Hm,' Satine mumbled. Her breathing became the peaceful deep breathing of someone who is asleep.

'How are you cold?' Christian asked, staring at her. Almost immediately he realised how loud that had been and winced, just in case it woke her. Satine replied by snuggling deeper into the blankets and turning her head on the pillow.

Christian shrugged, ran a hand through his wet hair and longed to get out in the rain again as he lay down on the bed and a flash of lightning illuminated the sky. He really was boiling.

--

**Another Erik-less chapter! He's got a pretty big part in the next chapter... which is going to freaking kill me...**

**Please review and you will get free muffins! ;) **


	23. Chapter 23

**Really short chappie, am apologising.**

**I absolutely SUCK at smut, so yeah, whoops. **

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Christian woke up slowly, keeping his eyes still closed. He wondered what time it was, as all he could see beyond his eyelids was darkness. If it was morning, his eyes would probably be fried open by now. So first, what time was it, and second, what had woken him?

He still felt groggy and tried to go back to sleep, turning his head to the left, hearing the rain pour down. He'd still felt too hot when he'd lay down last night (or earlier this night – whatever time it was) so he hadn't bothered to pull the blankets on. That would've just made it worse.

Something was bugging him. His arm – his left arm was in a strange position. It was up near his head and raised slightly; he felt like his hand had lost feeling to it. Wondering exactly what he did and fully ready to find out tomorrow (or later today), he moved his arm back. Or at least he would of if he could move it.

His stomach dropped as he became aware of an increasingly warm presence on his hips.

Christian opened his eyes to stare up at his left hand. At first he couldn't see; it was too dark. He waited impatiently as his eyes adjusted and the rain hammered against the roof. His hand was tied to the bed by what looked like... he couldn't tell; his head was still a little too fuzzy. He looked down to see what could be –

'Oh, God,' he murmured, feeling his body respond too quickly to what he saw and he looked up at the ceiling quickly, trying not to notice he was blushing or that his breathing had increased in speed ever so slightly. 'Please tell me I'm crazy and that this is not happening,' he pleaded, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the fact that his stomach and chest had gone suddenly mental with... excitement?

'You're crazy,' said a charming voice full of amusement.

_You're not real_, he told himself, looking back down. Erik smirked at him through the darkness, the mask gleaming, arching an eyebrow while he waited for an answer.

Christian forced himself not to think of the intimate position they were currently in.

Instead, he reached out his right hand, the one that had not been tied, thankfully, to see if this was simply a vision and that the ghost was not in fact straddling him. He pulled back his hand as if suddenly burned, feeling the heat rush to his face again – Erik's bare torso was definitely real; all he'd felt was smooth, fairly heated skin and hard muscle.

Christian cleared his throat and glared at the ghost, who didn't seem to be too intent on moving from this position. 'What are you doing here?'

'Might I ask the same for you?'

'I _live here_. With _Satine_,' Christian ground out through his teeth.

'I _understand _the _emphasis_,' Erik said, his smirk turning into a charming grin.

'Then get out of here!' Christian spat, feeling too hot all of a sudden. Anytime he could remember the ghost grinning like that things had not gone well – or more, they had too well. But now was a time when it would _not _be good (even though certain parts of his anatomy thought differently).

The ghost leaned down close, resting his hands on either side of Christian's shoulders and making sure their chests weren't touching; Christian swallowed as he felt the heat radiating off the ghost but kept up the glare, staring into those amazing green eyes and refusing flat-out to look any lower. Erik noticed this and smirked again, leaning down to the writer's ear. 'You seem to be forgetting,' Erik whispered and Christian shivered at his warm breath, listening to his heart pound wildly in his chest and felt somewhat amazing, '_who_ exactly is tied to the bed.'

Christian was about to snap back with 'Me, so you're free to go' but he knew exactly what Erik meant; Christian couldn't make him leave.

To punctuate his point, Erik ground his hips against Christian's, who seemed unable to hold back a moan.

Trying to think of some way to ignore the fact that most of he was now unbelievably dizzy, he managed, 'Why are you doing this?' He was certain Erik would've wanted to kill him. Maybe he'd come to get those twenty-four hours back. Christian hoped not as he was kind of, well, oh yeah, _in love _with another person.

'I'm helping you feel better.' He could feel the ghost grin momentarily then he began on making a trail of slow kisses down Christian's neck. Christian swallowed down a moan when Erik got to the juncture between his neck and shoulder. He took in a breath and said a little shakily 'Well, I can give you assurance that it's not working.'

He felt Erik stop and let relief wash over him. Maybe he could just convince Erik to untie his hand and maybe, _hopefully_, he could just get out to the downpour of rain, where it would be thankfully freezing. The only real cold thing here was the mask, which, for once, he was thankful for.

'Erik,' he said warningly. 'You really shouldn't be here...'

'I was just thinking.' The ghost sounded amused and Christian tensed.

'Right,' the writer said slowly, wondering where this was going, 'what about?'

'Well,' Erik said seriously, as though they were having a discussion about the opera house, moving back up to look just as seriously down at the writer, 'either you're lying – or your pants are.'

Christian felt his heart hammering in his chest and tried to turn his head so he wouldn't have to see Erik's amused expression, but instead the rain. He would have if the ghost hadn't placed his hand on the side of the writer's face, tilting his head back to look at him, leaning down and crushing his lips against Christian's.

Christian made some kind of high startled noise then melted into the kiss, closing his eyes and allowing himself to be sweetly tortured. He realised Erik was tying his other arm above his head and cursed the ghost for being able to distract him so well.

The ghost moved on from his mouth and down his neck, onto his collarbone. 'This really isn't a good idea of –' Christian began but stopped when Erik, obviously trying to shut him up, ran his tongue around an extra-sensitive nipple.

Christian turned his head to face the door, struggling half-heartedly at the rope that bound his hands. He hated himself for not doing anything really to stop the ghost and that he wasn't feeling guilty and that he could touch the ghost thanks to these stupid bonds and that Erik really was too talented with his hands, he was burning up.

And then he stopped. He blinked then glared down at Erik. 'Do you mind telling me what you're playing at?'

Erik sat up, smiling charmingly down at Christian and shifting his position slightly so Christian could feel the sweet friction. The writer felt almost like Erik could have gotten away with it if he hadn't remembered exactly where he was and just who happened to still be lying next to him. He felt the anger seeping through him.

'Get off,' he told the ghost, furious.

'Not on your life,' Erik remarked, smirking back calmly.

'You shouldn't be here, this is over!' Christian snapped. 'Untie my hands and get out of here!' He looked over at Satine – _how is she still asleep? _He felt close to hyperventilating.

'What makes you think I'd do that?' Erik said, sounding a little dangerous. Christian swallowed; maybe the ghost wasn't as happy with him as he thought.

'Just – let me up,' Christian pleaded, glancing up at the ghost. He was secretly terrified that his body would betray him without a second thought if Erik kept this up and he did not need Satine to wake up. He was panicking completely at what he'd gotten himself into. 'Please, Erik.'

He closed his eyes, feeling like a complete idiot. He heard movement and the ghost's weight shifted a little but Christian could still feel the other man's presence. Then lips pressed against his softly, wonderfully and Christian whimpered, wishing he could just throw his arms around Erik's neck, unsure of what the kiss meant for him.

'Christian?' asked a sleepy female voice, only it sounded very distant. 'Are you okay?'

--

Christian woke up in a panic, shaking madly and gasping for breath. He was drenched in sweat and he still was feeling like he was inside a furnace; he looked at his hands, and they were in front of him, not tied to the bed. He looked over at Satine, who was half-asleep as she stared at him. 'What's the matter?' she asked groggily. 'You were panting.'

Christian gave a sigh of relief, though he still felt completely terrified of what his mind had just conjured up. He was not going to forgive himself for that. It made him feel guilty and terrible.

'I'm fine,' he managed. 'Just... hot.'

Satine nodded. 'Go outside. Still raining...' And she dropped back off to sleep again.

Christian could only take her advice too well; he jumped off the bed, walked awkwardly to the balcony and let the rain fall down on him. He felt himself still shaking; he wished he'd never dreamt that. It made him feel worse about what he'd done than before. He'd managed to forget about the Opera Ghost. He made a strangled noise and knew he'd feel better once he slept it off.

He thanked God for rain and apologised for all blasphemy. He hoped he'd never have that dream again and checked his wrists once again, just in case he magically had rope burn.

He didn't and that was wonderful. It had been a dream. The rain seemed to help him realise that.

And somewhere across Paris, in the pouring rain, on the roof of the Opera Populaire, surrounded by gargoyles, someone tried to get his mind together.

**--**

**I had to stop a couple of times; I was like 'This is too stupid, I can't write this... Eeeee!' **

**Reviews are muchly appreciated (indicating) :D Muffins are still up for grabs (**_**imaaaaaginary muffin**_**). **


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

'Christian, are you okay?' asked Satie, staring down at him. The four of them (Christian, Toulouse, the Argentinean and Satie) were currently sitting in a booth off to the left of the dance floor.

Christian swallowed hard, snapping out of his daze and looking at them. 'Hm?'

'You haven't said a word,' Satie remarked, blinking. Christian opened his mouth when the Argentinean coughed something that sounded remarkably like '_lovesick_'. Christian glared at him and the Argentinean acted like nothing had happened.

'I'm fine,' he said to Satie, looking hard at the Argentinean. 'Just had a bad dream.'

'About what?' asked Toulouse, his feet dangling a foot off the floor.

'Ghosts,' Christian muttered darkly, looking at the table.

'That isn't very scary,' Toulouse shrugged. 'Why, I remember, I had a dream once, about this _huge _ugly –'

Christian paid no attention as Toulouse went on. Instead he was trying to invent a scenario where he had never had that dream to begin with. Satine couldn't remember a thing, she was too tired. But it wasn't her that needed convincing.

It was him.

He felt different around Satine than he did around the Ghost. It was something he didn't want to dare think about in case he realised something that did not want realising.

_There's nothing to realise_, he told himself, putting his head in his hands. The Opera House was nothing but trouble. He would be glad when all this was over.

He realised suddenly Toulouse and the others were looking at him. 'What?' he asked, tuning back into the earth.

'He asked you a question,' said Satie.

'Oh,' Christian said, blinking at Toulouse. 'Oh, sorry, what?'

'I said,' Toulouse cleared his throat dramatically, 'do you have another play on your hands?'

Christian stared at him then shook his head. 'No. What's gives you that impression?'

'It's simply that you always seem to be far off thinking,' Toulouse shrugged.

'I'm telling you,' the Argentinean said irritably, 'that's _because_ he is _love_ –'

'I just haven't been feeling well lately,' Christian shrugged.

'Well, you should at least try to look your best,' said Satie, shrugging. 'Shave.'

Christian put a hand up to his face as it dissolved into conversation around him. He did need to shave. When had he last looked in a mirror? In fact, when did he forget to shave?

He knew he looked tired but that was because _he was _tired. He hadn't wanted to go back to sleep. He'd stayed out in the rain for at least an hour, just trying to calm himself down (and cool himself down for that matter. He didn't want to know where that scenario had come from). After realising he couldn't feel his arms, he just didn't have it in him to stay outside any longer. He didn't want to fall asleep again.

'Zidler wants some good ideas out of you, I think,' said Toulouse thoughtfully.

'Hm?' Christian asked.

'Stay on earth for a moment, will you?' said the Argentinean, smirking at him.

'Well, if the Opera Populaire accepted your story, Zidler's probably hoping you'll haul in the money,' Toulouse shrugged.

'Right,' Christian said, rolling his eyes, 'because he doesn't do that already.'

'Well, it's always good to have more money,' Satie responded, taking off his glasses and rubbing them with his shirt sleeve.

Christian sighed, leaning his head on his arms.

--

'I can't believe him,' Christine said furiously after she had retold her story for the eighth time. 'I mean, after all the trouble it took for me to get there –'

'Calm down,' said Meg, shaking her head. They were sitting behind stage, listening to rehearsals. Things were getting much worse now with all the tension of being absolutely brilliant.

To Meg's surprise, she could only worry every time the managers didn't finish an award-winning speech with 'And the Opera Ghost has left a note'. It didn't seem right. Erik surely should have done something by now. She calmed her thoughts and looked at her friend. 'Christine, don't worry. Look, when's this celebration on?'

'The celebration?'

'Yes, for the play?'

'Oh!' Christine blinked then smiled. 'I believe it's on the night before the play!'

'Okay,' Meg said slowly, sitting down. 'And we both know what we're doing so well we could recite it backwards...'

Christine cleared her throat and gave it a go. '_Yam tahw emoc... _wait, hold on, is that right... yes, hold on... _a kiss on the hand... dnah _–'

'We could go,' Meg said, clapping a hand over Christine's mouth. Christine's eyes narrowed and Meg took her hand away.

'That sounds like a good idea,' Christine said with all the dignity she could muster.

'I'm glad. We just have to make sure Mama doesn't find out,' Meg said and with that the two girls walked away, Meg to think and Christine to rehearse.

Up on the catwalk, Erik watched them.

--

_He found his wrists were tied to the bed once again and that same pair of lips were pressed against his. He tilted his head, feeling the ghost deepen the kiss. _

_Erik moved to his jaw line and Christian stared up at the ceiling. 'Why – aren't you – back yet?' Christian realised the ghost was asking him in-between kisses. _

'_Because I love Satine,' Christian snapped. 'Why are you doing this?'_

_He didn't turn his head, Satine would be there._

_Erik appeared back in his vision, dark hair in disarray and green eyes playful. 'I've told you before, I know when you're lying.'_

'_I'm sick of you,' Christian said, closing his eyes. 'This isn't happening. I know it's not.' _

'_Then why are you disappointed?' _

'_Okay, I prefer you when you're torturing me! Stop giving me life lessons, you don't know what you're talking about.'_

_Erik smirked at him and he couldn't help but realise that had made all the blood travel down. 'As you wish.' _

'Christian!'

Christian's head snapped up off his arms and he nearly fell out of the booth. 'What –?'

'Christian,' said Satine, glaring down at him. 'It's nearly eight o'clock! You've been here all day!'

Christian stared groggily at her. 'Oh. Sorry...'

She frowned. 'Are you sure you're okay? You don't look very good.'

'I'm fine,' Christian said, standing up quickly and walking past her. 'Don't worry about it.' _I hate my mind and I do not want to fall asleep again._

--

He fell asleep again but he didn't dream. Basically it was all black.

When he woke up he felt like some of the weight had gone, a little better. The days were passing by in what seemed like sections. Who had he talked to, _really _talked to lately? The only person really seemed like Christine.

He rolled his eyes and he sat up in the bed. Satine was gone, probably complaining to Zidler about something or trying to organise the celebration tomorrow night. Tomorrow night. A week had gone by so fast. It was disturbing. The day after tomorrow would be opening night and quite possibly the last time he entered the Opera Populaire. He had thought about it and decided he couldn't go back there after the opening night; he was having a hard time enough getting the Opera Ghost to leave his head and this wasn't helping.

He groaned when he remembered his parents would be there. Like they really wanted to be. His father would hate the entire thing (which he couldn't really care less about) and his mother would tell him the whole storyline to the point he'd have to remind her he wrote it (and _lived it_ for that matter). He could avoid them, hopefully, but somehow he doubted it. He didn't really want to sit in the audience, he'd just stay behind stage. Maybe he could try and sort something out with Christine, she'd reacted strangely the other day.

He'd gotten used to the aching head and chest. It seemed just like normal now.

He reminded himself that he had to shave and searched through a drawer for a razor. It seemed Satine had just left everything around in the wrong places.

What had Toulouse said about Zidler wanting more money from his ideas? It seemed foggy and stupid at the moment as he was still half-asleep, but Christian remembered that the dwarf had told him Harold Zidler wanted to earn money off his stories. Well, if Christian could get an idea...

He couldn't at the moment either. He didn't know if he was nervous; hell, he was. He was convinced people would hate it.

_Come on, why would people hate it? _

_Because the whole story is a time bomb, just waiting to go off!_

He had a sudden memory of when he'd first really met the Ghost face-to-face and the ghost had thrown the script down in front of him.

'_This is mine!'_

'_It's good...'_

'_That's not the – hang on, I never gave this to anyone, you _stole _it from me!'_

He realised he was trying not to laugh. And then he realised his chest was hurting terribly and that he shouldn't be thinking about this. He sat back down, staring at the window. He just needed tomorrow to come then he could talk to people and then it would be over and everything could be over and he could just live his life with Satine, like he was supposed to because he loved her. That was it. He loved Satine.

--

'Oh, thank God, you shaved,' Satine muttered as she walked into the Elephant.

Christian smiled at her and she smiled back, rather tightly in his opinion but he couldn't really care because he loved her and that was all that mattered. Then something in her expression calmed down and she patted his hand, smiling normally, leaning over and kissing his cheek. 'I'll see you later,' she whispered, smiling at him again, widely. She stood up and moved to the door, opening it disappearing from his life momentarily.

Christian looked out to the balcony, getting slowly to his feet and walking outside, leaning on the railing. The clouds and rain had disappeared though it was still a little cold. Christian looked up at the sun and grinned as the shafts of heat flashed across his face. It was a rather wonderful feeling.

Which would be great if his chest would stop hurting.

He felt older for some reason; he didn't know who he could talk to. He didn't know if he _wanted _to talk to anyone. It all seemed so wrong and yet so correct at the same time. This was his life. He lived at the Moulin Rouge.

Christian looked out at Paris. It wasn't as amazing a view as from the alcove near his flat or the roof of the Opera Populaire and it was blocked quite a bit by a gigantic red windmill. But nonetheless, he felt better than he had in a long while.

He looked down at his feet. How long had it been since he'd sung something? He realised his mouth was moving against its own will and that he was quiet, incredibly quiet.

'_Come what may_...'

He heard movement below him but couldn't be bothered to take any notice of it; he needed to keep going.

'_Never knew I could feel like this_

_Like I've never seen the sky before_

_Want to vanish inside your kiss_

_Every day I love you more and more..._'

He blinked, realising his chest and head were hurting much more than usual. He ran his sleeve across his eyes and looked back out to the windmill in front of him.

'_Listen to my heart, can you hear it sing?_

_Come back to me and forgive everything..._

_Seasons may change, winter to spring...'_

He couldn't bring himself to finish the last line. He didn't know why he was singing this, or why Satine would have to forgive him, or anything. He shrugged and walked back inside.

Down below the Elephant, a voice said, 'Okay, well he's definitely lovesick...'

Another voice said, 'That is what we have _accomplished_, Toulouse! I have told you many time that he is –!'

There was silence and then a thud as though someone had fainted.

'Okay, well, he's right,' said Satie, 'the man is lovesick.'

'Too true,' said Toulouse, thinking hard. 'Only one problem; who is making him lovesick?'

--

**Sorry that took ages! Couldn't think of nothing! **

**Offering imaginary Angel Food Cake, everyone! **


	25. Chapter 25

**Ta-da! **

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

'Wake up!' someone was hissing at him.

Christian opened his eyes, waiting for his brain to fully awaken. He blinked at the blobs of red, white and deep red with blue in front of him. 'What?'

'Oh, thank _God_, I thought you'd never wake up!' Satine said, clapping her hand to her forehead. 'You need to get up! Today's the big day!'

'The play?' Christian must have missed a few days in his head.

'No! The celebration!'

'Why?' Christian sat up, looking around wildly. It looked dark outside. 'What time is it?'

'The celebration,' Satine continued, ignoring him, 'about a) you returning to the Moulin Rouge and being famous, b) me being alive and returning to the Moulin Rouge and c) the fact that we're in love.'

Satine basically jumped on him and shoved her tongue into his mouth. He moved backwards in shock and she came closer, wrapping her arms around his neck.

'Hold on a second!' Christian said, pushing her back and staring at her. He had gone from half-asleep to fully awake within a half-second. 'What?'

Satine glared at him. 'Is something wrong with you?'

'What?' Christian repeated, still unbelievably confused and buttoning his shirt back up. Was this a dream? And if not, why weren't they kissing?

Something wouldn't let him in his head.

Satine gave a frustrated scream into her hands. Christian leaned towards her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. 'Look, I don't understand –'

'Zidler said this would be _sooo easy_,' Satine whined, sounding near tears.

'Zidler?' asked Christian. This was getting stranger by the minute. What had he woken up to? 'What does Zidler have to do with anything?'

She glared at him, pulling her hands away from her face. 'Is something wrong with me?'

'What? No!'

'Then why won't you kiss me?!'

Christian stared at her with his mouth open.

'I mean, any man,' Satine said, her voice rising as she stood up and pointed a finger to the Moulin Rouge, 'in there would do that as soon as I said 'go' but I'm obviously not _enough _for you, am I?!'

'Um, look, I have no real idea what's happening right now,' Christian deadpanned, staring at her. 'What do you mean I don't kiss you –?'

'What's the difference between them and you?' Satine asked herself, scrutinising him as though the answer was written on his face.

Christian shook his head angrily. 'Maybe the fact that I love you could be the difference!'

'I don't get it,' Satine said vaguely then she shook her head.

'Okay, fine,' snapped Christian, 'why don't you tell me how you're still alive?'

'I can't! Not now,' Satine continued, composing herself. 'I swear, I just need some time to –'

'To what?' Christian didn't know how they'd gotten into this.

'Tomorrow,' Satine said hastily. 'I'll tell you tomorrow, darling, just forget about it.' She smiled at him and said 'Do you know how cute you look when you're flustered?'

Christian ignored that and instead stared at her. 'Satine. What just happened?'

'I'm just – nervous,' Satine blurted. 'I mean, it's been so long... and tonight...'

'I'm sure you'll be fine,' Christian said, still staring at her.

Satine smiled at him and stood up. 'I have to get ready.'

'_Now_?' Christian asked, blinking. He really was doing a lot of that lately.

'It's two hours til it starts.'

'What time does it start? What time is it _now_?' asked Christian, feeling completely lost.

'It starts at _seven _at night. It is now _five _at night,' Satine told him, rolling her eyes. 'How late did you go to bed?'

About three in the morning he managed to fall asleep. Nonetheless, he felt amazing. After tomorrow he could forget everything about the Opera Populaire. And tonight was just one big party.

Satine looked relieved. 'Anyway, you look better today than you have in a while.'

'You look pretty amazing already,' Christian said, grinning at her. She grinned back and said, 'And who just objected to –?'

'I probably should try to find something to wear,' Christian shrugged. He didn't want to hear that. He didn't want to sleep with her at the moment. Something in his mind told him it was wrong. Something else in his mind told him that it shouldn't be wrong because he loved her.

Satine smiled a little tightly. But did she also look – _relieved?_ 'Right, good, I'll go,' she said, nodding. 'Maria said we could find dresses together.'

'Okay,' said Christian, a little blankly. Who was Maria? 'Have fun.'

She had left the room before the word 'party' could be uttered.

Christian sat there on the bed, trying to piece it all together. In two hours the celebration would begin. At three o'clock in the morning he had managed to get to sleep after trying to for about five hours. He couldn't stop thinking about the play being a disaster.

But he felt great right now. Relieved, you could say. Because in less than two days he never had to think about the Opera Populaire or its occupants again.

He decided he probably should get ready.

--

Judging by the roar coming from below, Christian took a wild guess that the party had already started. He knew fairly well it would be Satine's return to... well, the living basically, but he couldn't really care. If it had been about him he probably wouldn't have gone in the end; there would be a few people staring at him but no one in their right mind would watch him over Satine and he was thankful for that. The writer was fairly sick of people staring at him wherever he went.

He grinned as he found three familiar faces waiting outside of the Elephant for him.

'You look a lot better than you have lately,' Satie exclaimed, and Christian shrugged, feeling thankful. He _had _been looking off-beat lately, as everyone kept telling him. But as he looked at the ready faces of Toulouse, Satie and the Argentinean he began to feel like himself again.

The sky was dark and the moon was hiding behind the dark clouds that slowly trod along the air. The cheering could be heard quite clearly.

'Well, gentlemen,' he said as they began to walk the unbelievably short walk up the steps to the cabaret waiting inside the Moulin Rouge, 'I've been off-colour lately and I'd like to apologise for the real scientific name of what the Argentinean calls "lovesickness". So tonight it would be absolutely amazing if you joined me in most likely getting smashed!'

They cheered together and Christian felt like he was really at home. Except for something...

Then the doors opened and Christian remembered what Zidler's parties were like. There were people everywhere, all standing or dancing or consuming numerous amounts of alcohol in booths or at tables. There was life everywhere, the talking was a roar mixed in the music, that strange music Zidler seemed able to come up with for any occasion with the beat that just made you want to dance. There was a stage that had been cleared and held many musical instruments as people moved around it, everyone obviously enjoying themselves. Lights showered down upon them, red and white and yellow while smaller lights seemed to hang around the room like fairies.

It brought his mind back to the masquerade. They had both been amazing in an overwhelming way, but so different. At the masquerade it was calm, quiet, secret, rich and beautiful. In the Moulin Rouge, it seemed free, and loud, happy, dark, yet the beauty was still there and the secrecy was hiding unless you looked hard enough. He enjoyed both of them in their own ways.

Nonetheless, as soon as he entered the room and knew his mind was almost catching on fire at the promising sight of finally feeling better again, he felt an odd sensation. He stopped grinning and looked around to see if someone was watching him. That was what it felt like in a way... but it also felt like he knew someone was here.

Which seemed stupid, because, yes, he knew a lot of people here. He forgot about it when Toulouse grabbed his arm and tried to drag him through the crowds to a booth. When that failed, Christian just followed Toulouse's experienced instructions on how to get through one, following the dwarf's voice. He couldn't help but feel that strange emotion mixing into the excitement he was feeling.

'Aha! A booth – Christian come here –!'

Toulouse's voice was just another cry in the room. Christian moved forwards and slid into the booth, quickly followed by the Argentinean and Satie. They were both looking very smart tonight and Satie had worn his favourite scarf for the occasion. Toulouse counted them.

'One, two, three, four – good! I'll order us the drinks!' With that, he disappeared into the people around.

Christian noticed there were people setting things up on stage, grabbing chairs and tuning instruments. Four men in suits stood on the other side of the stage, looking a little nervous and embarrassed and Christian had an idea they were going to be some source of musical entertainment. The dancers were joining together on the stage and he could see Chocolat, dressed in his white waist-coat and bright striped pants talking to two women, who nodded and smiled at the four men.

'So, are you doing a speech or something?' Satie asked, fingering his fuzzy chin.

'No way in hell,' Christian remarked and the Argentinean grinned, clapping him on the back. 'Zidler is going to say something on your return, as well as Satine's! And she has a speech I think too.'

'Oh, great,' Christian said enthusiastically. 'I can't wait to see how the audience react to Satine.'

'It will be interesting,' the Argentinean said, winking at Satie. Christian ignored that and looked at the crowd to see if Toulouse was approaching. The various suits and gowns had spread out around the room so the tables that had been set up over some of the dance floor were visible. White cloths and candles covered them, in a style that could be called romantic.

The new music began to play; it was a drum beat at first then the vocals and horns mixed in, that same music that indeed made people want to dance. Christian barely noticed it, even though he looked on stage. The dwarf woman (who held the same amount of glitter Carlotta did but not the toad quality) was up there while the four in normal suits had disappeared, though Christian was sure they were just as nervous. A few people whistled and the dancing started up to the song.

'_I'll meet you in the red room_

_Close the door and dim the lights_

_I will be yours truly_

_If indeed the price is right –_'

Christian's eyes travelled over the crowds – and stopped. He stared at the girl standing there in the silver dress, with her golden hair tied up. Christian muttered, 'Be back in a minute,' as he got to his feet and pushed through the crowd so he could talk to this girl who looked shy and out of place.

He tapped her shoulder and she looked around, almost frightened at the prospect someone would want to talk to her. Then her eyes widened.

'Hey, Meg,' Christian said, unsure of what to expect; he didn't know if Meg wanted to kill him still.

Meg squeaked and hugged him tightly. Christian hugged her back, not caring if someone was watching, even Satine. They were friends and he'd missed her.

He realised suddenly Meg was crying slightly. She pulled back and smiled at him with red eyes.

'Miss me that much?' Christian asked, unable to stop smiling at her; it felt so good to see her!

'I didn't even know I missed you that much,' Meg said, wiping her eyes and looking embarrassed. 'Sorry, um. I'm still angry though,' she added, glaring at him and crossing her arms.

'I wouldn't expect any less,' Christian replied honestly and she fought not to smile. 'I missed you. And you came!'

'Yes, Christine and I came,' Meg said excitedly. 'Mama would not be pleased... it's so different from the Opera Populaire...' She looked around as if her mother would be right behind her.

'Christine's here?' asked Christian, blinking. 'Just you two?'

'Yes,' said Meg, looking like she was performing a great duty. 'We're here to convince you that you still want to come back and that you're still in love with –'

'_Meg_!' Christian snapped. 'Forget about it. I belong here.'

'But not with _her_,' Meg said, cocking a thumb behind her. Christian looked behind her and saw Satine in a lovely red dress that flowed down to her feet and sparkled. Her red hair cascaded over her shoulders and her blue eyes shone against her pale skin. She caught sight of him and smiled, waving her fingers at him. He couldn't help but notice she was talking to that sandy haired young man that he'd seen leave the Moulin Rouge in a storm off a few days ago. Christian felt curiosity hit him square in the face and looked back at the Giry girl.

'Why not with her?' Christian asked, arching an eyebrow at Meg.

'She's full of herself,' Meg said bitterly, glaring at Satine.

'I beg your pardon, I'm in love with her,' Christian replied, blinking at the ballerina. Meg's fairy-like face glared at him.

'Look, it's great to see you again and I really have missed you, but the only time I'm going back to the Opera Populaire is tomorrow,' he said, shrugging. His chest was wildly protesting at that and he told it to bugger off. It had been fine up until that. Now his head was starting to hurt. Ugh, just when he'd managed to get it to go away...

'Christian,' shouted Toulouse, appearing magically by Christian's legs. He smiled up at Meg, took her hand and kissed it. Meg blushed and smiled politely. 'And who is this beautiful young lady?' Toulouse asked Christian, and Meg tried not to laugh. Christian grinned, 'This is Meg, a friend of mine.'

'A friend,' Toulouse said, nodding.

'She's in love with someone,' Christian put up the barrier, remembering Robert. Meg's cheeks turned a darker red, the same colour as Satine's dress.

Toulouse looked momentarily disappointed then brightened. 'Any friend of Christian is a friend of mine!'

'The same for me,' Meg replied happily, shaking Toulouse's hand. As she glanced up at Christian, she whispered, 'But not _her_.' Toulouse did not notice. He informed Christian that the drinks were at the table and offered Meg to join them. She politely declined then seemed to think about it. 'Maybe,' she said finally and Toulouse nodded, disappearing back into the crowd.

'Odd man,' Meg said, smiling at Christian. 'But definitely good at heart.'

'He is,' Christian agreed and he felt like they were back at the Opera Populaire, surrounded by white and not red, on the staircases and not in the middle of a dance floor, with no one around except for a hyper soprano.

Meg smiled again, this time a little forced. 'Well, I shall join them, I suppose. Will I see you there or shall you go talk to your lady-love?'

'I need to talk to her for at least two minutes,' Christian said, grinning at Meg but only for a second. He felt awkward and didn't know rightfully what to do in this situation.

Meg nodded, looking down at her feet. 'I missed you,' she said again.

'I missed you too,' Christian replied truthfully. Meg nodded again, brightened up and said, 'I shall go join your friends.'

And with that, Meg walked through the crowd to the booth where the others had gone. Christian watched her go and felt guilt wash over him like rain. He shook his head and turned to move after Satine.

Once again he had that odd feeling of being watched... mixed in with his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He frowned and looked around to see if anyone was staring at him but right now he didn't exist. He could see Zidler hurriedly running through the crowd and could see Satine talking to a large amount of women who were all admiring her and stunned that she was still alive. No one seemed to be watching him. The sandy-haired man had blurred into the surroundings.

Christian moved towards Satine again and the crowd of women parted slightly to let him through, each of them looking at him flirtatiously.

'Oh, Christian, you're here!' Satine said, draping an arm around him. A few women looked disappointed that he wasn't single. The others just forgot he existed. 'This is Christian, girls; Christian, this is Eva, Lily, Rose, Johanna and Lucy.' She pointed to all the girls and he found he had forgotten all their names in an instance.

'How are you tonight?' he asked, ignoring them. 'Better?'

'A little,' she replied, smiling shyly and kissing him chastely. Christian ignored the little gasps and the fact that his head screamed at him. 'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be,' Satine said, looking a little horror-struck that he should be sorry. 'Look, I've got to go find Harold – I'm doing a _speech _tonight, oh my God –'

'You'll be great,' Christian told her, smiling. She nodded, breathing. 'Thanks, darling.'

'Just the truth,' he replied, grinning. His chest was aching again. _What is wrong with me?! _

'I'll see you later, where will you be?'

'I'm sitting with Toulouse –'

'Oh, no,' Satine interrupted, 'sit with us! You can't be expected to sit with Toulouse tonight.'

'Well, some friends of mine came, Meg and Christine –'

'Who?' Satine asked, frowning. She looked angry.

Christian sighed. 'They're from the Opera Populaire. Christine's actually playing you.'

The girls giggled. 'The Opera Populaire, hm?' asked one, probably Lily, if he remembered right. 'That's a very high-class place, isn't it?'

'I've heard it's haunted!' said another, maybe Johanna. Her blue eyes were wide with fear. 'There's a man – or a ghost, someone... there's been deaths there. Remember when it burnt down? They say _that _was him! Oh, he has a name...'

'I can assure you there's no such thing as ghosts,' Christian told her, smiling charmingly. The girls laughed while Johanna tried to think.

'The Phantom of the Opera, I think it is, dearie,' said Lucy, patting Johanna's shoulder. They were so unlike Meg and Christine, with their heavy make-up and rather revealing clothes, their beauty so dark rather than the light innocent kind that Meg and Christine held.

'He's probably charming,' sighed Eva, clasping her hands together.

'He's a _ghost_, he's a manic, you idiot,' replied Satine, rolling her eyes.

'Speaking of charming, some of the men here tonight...' Rose flung in.

'He probably murders people by the day to keep the place in line. Wouldn't it be horrible?' asked Lily. 'I mean, just so strung by fear. I'd hate it and that ghost is just trouble. Wait til the police catch him.'

'He's a _ghost_, though,' Johanna said, frowning.

Lily snorted. 'There's no such _thing _as actual ghosts. He's just some psychopath that runs around and when the police get him, _well_, he'll be hanged. I'm certain the crowds will be wild –'

'You should watch what you say,' Christian interrupted, glaring at her. The anger was clear in his blue eyes.

The girls silenced and nodded.

'No offence, monsieur, of course,' said Lily quickly, as soon as the shock had worn off of someone who seemed so nice moments ago looking a little murderous. Christian shook his head and kissed Satine quickly on the cheek. 'Where will you be?'

'Oh, I'll find a table and flag you down,' Satine said absently, as if she hadn't heard the past few moments of conversation. She smiled at him and noticed someone else in the crowd, her mouth opening in a bright smile and with that she pushed past the girls, who were still all staring at Christian as though he might go off at them again.

'Good evening,' Christian said charmingly, leaving the conversation with one final glare at Lily, who flushed and narrowed her grey eyes at him as he moved back towards –

The pain in his head flared up again and he became aware of his heart beating in a dull way. What had made him snap at that girl? He needed to forget it, not relive it. He'd been going so well, what had happened?

He was snapped out of his reverie when he walked into someone. He shook his head and looked around, unsure of how he'd gotten to this side of the room and realised he'd been heading for outside. He looked up, ready to apologise –

It was Erik.

**--**

**(scary theme music and sign that says TO BE CONTINUED...) What could happen next time?! **

**That song is actual from **_**Moulin Rouge**_**, it's called 'Meet Me in the Red Room.'**

**I watched it again today when my cousin was over and I heard it. It's when Christian's waiting in the Elephant and Satine thinks he's the Duke. When it ended, I said, 'Damn it, there's no real way he'd fall in love with an Opera Ghost, is there?'**

**My cousin simply stared at me and said, 'It's a movie. I'm pretty certain Nirvana did not exist back then.' **

**Thanks for the reviews! Hope you enjoyed!**


	26. Chapter 26

**Sorry that this has taken **_**ages**_**; I had no time this week. Thank you for reviewing! And I hope you enjoy this chapter... as much as you can. Okay, enjoy **_**reading **_**this chapter :P**

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

For a second that lasted a few hours, Christian stared up at Erik, experiencing mixed feelings; his heart was beating wildly, so loud he was certain everyone in the room could hear it, and he felt an unexplainable rush of joy he hadn't witnessed in a while. His chest felt too small to contain what was inside of it and his stomach did a few somersaults. To put it shortly, he suddenly felt unbelievable.

Then that second passed and he remembered exactly where he was, what life he was living and who he was in love with. He took a step back, eyes wide, as the panic stabbed at his brain. What was Erik doing here and what was he planning to do?

He hoped to read some kind of emotion on the ghost's face – his reaction to seeing Christian, anger, disgust, smirk – even if he just glanced at him it would've been something – but to his surprise those green eye barely glanced at him in those past two seconds and the ghost simply swept past him.

Christian stood there for a moment, his heart still pounding and disappointment washing through him. He couldn't believe it; 1) Erik was here and up to _something _and 2) he barely acknowledged his existence. He was surprised to find he actually cared about that, but anything – _anything, _just_ some_ formof _recognition,_ would have been better than Erik not even looking at him.

Then he remembered he wasn't caring about that, he was caring about how Erik could quite easily ruin a few things at the Moulin Rouge. He froze. The ghost was definitely someone you'd want on your side when it came to revenge.

He turned around and took off through the now much-thicker crowd, trying to find Meg, Christine, Satine, Toulouse, Zidler, _anyone_. He had to think of something.

_Maybe he's not here for you_, he tried to calm himself down.

_Right, because he's _not _angry about anything._

_Well... you never know..._

Oh, hell.

Christian noted that he was indeed starting to panic, _really _panic. There were so many things that Erik could do, so many options; he was smart, God, he was smart, he was genius, the music he composed, _his voice, _there was nothing like it –

He stopped himself as he pushed through the crowds; it was making him feel funny if he thought like that. It made him feel like he was betraying Satine almost, which he wasn't because he loved her, _why couldn't anyone else just understand that?_

The headache was back – he leant against a wall, one hand clasping his head. He realised quite suddenly he wasn't in a crowd anymore; he'd somehow worked himself into the halls throughout the Moulin Rouge.

'What am I going to do?' Christian whispered.

He heard footsteps, light footsteps but sharp and quick as they flew down the hallway, past the doors, footsteps that sounded like –

'Was that who I thought it was?' Meg's voice flitted into his head as she laid a hand on his shoulder.

'Depends, who do you think it was?' Christian asked, trying to smile over his shoulder but failing quite spectacularly; he settled for staring at the ceiling.

Meg sighed, rubbing his shoulder. 'Why did you leave the Opera Populaire?'

'Because she's the only person I've ever been in love with,' Christian said firmly.

'Stop being so _stubborn_ – why would you leave for a dead relationship?'

'What's so dead about it?' Christian snapped, turning around and glaring at her.

'Um. She _died. _For quite a while.'

'Why does no one understand I'm in love with Satine?' Christian nearly yelled, clapping his hands to his face and sliding down the wall so he ended up sitting on the floor with his knees pressed to his chest. He felt quite close to breaking point and his breathing was a little choked. He wished Meg didn't have to see this and looked down, running both his hands through his hair so that he could rest on them.

He felt Meg's touch on his shoulder, a very timid but trying to be friendly touch. A simple 'I'm here for you' kind of touch, like Meg would offer to her friends.

'I'm fine,' he managed, springing to his feet in a second and walking past her. Erik hadn't even _looked _at him.

--

He couldn't help but notice Satine in his peripheral vision.

She was tall, striking, with long red hair and milk-white skin, vacant of a single freckle. Her eyes were blue, darkly made-up and her lipstick was only a shade darker than her dress, which gave the full view of her arms until the elbows, for they were covered with long white gloves that went down to her fingertips. She beautiful, yes, and most of the men in the room were staring at her approvingly.

Erik had never really wanted to kill anyone quite as badly.

He took in his surroundings as the music swept around the room. He definitely remembered this place as where he'd seen her fall from the swing. The stage, mixed in the once-again dance floor, where she'd died, though it was from a different view. The curtain had been down. He could still hear the clapping echoing in his head and the pathetic sobbing that had ensued as the woman that now stood, laughing with a few of her friends, had died.

She seemed to feel his gaze on her and looked around the room until their gazes connected. Her eyes widened a little and she smiled flirtatiously at him, making a question with her expression if he'd like to come over here.

Upon seeing his answer, she turned back to her friends with a little cat-like smile on her face.

--

'He's _what_?' Christine asked, her mouth gaping open as they hid in a booth.

'I _know_,' hissed Meg, 'we have to find out what he's doing!'

'But... that's really... oh,' Christine put a hand to her forehead. 'This is bad. This is _really _bad, Meg.'

'I know.'

'I mean, _really_... Erik could tell Satine anything.'

'So then Satine will leave Christian?' Meg asked bitterly. 'I'd be fine with that?'

'But the two of them most _definitely _wouldn't get back together after that,' Christine said, frowning. 'Meg, Erik can't say _anything_, because it's Christian that needs to realise what he's done wrong.'

'But he's not _going _to _realise_,' Meg argued. 'If you'd heard him a while ago – he's getting closer to realising it, it's true, he's becoming more stubborn, but it's not going to happen _tonight_.'

'Then we can only hope for tomorrow night or a miracle.'

'And if that doesn't happen?'

'We'll probably have to find some way to lock them in a room so they end up talking to each other.'

The girls were silent as they listened to the music pound itself throughout the Moulin Rouge.

'You know, I think this pregnancy has made you wiser,' Meg said, a little astounded.

'Thank you,' Christine said, trying but failing to not look pleased.

--

Christian resisted the urge to stay outside any longer. He had to go back in, even if it meant that there was no reality in there. Oh, God, what made _sense _in there? In there it was like two worlds had collided, Meg, Toulouse, Christine, Satine, _Erik_, what was he going to do? What _could _he do?

He considered running but that wouldn't be right. Surely that would mean he lost.

Had he lost already?

He ran a hand through his hair while he shoved the other in his jacket pocket. This was all a game, wasn't it? Just thinking about it made shivers run up his spine. _Ugh_, he was going crazy, the only thing he was losing was his _mind_ – there _was_ no game, it was just plain old _normal_ life, but with a playful edge to it; if he ran away, it would probably line up to what Erik wanted. But going back in there seemed also like what Erik would want.

But was there anything else he could do? Satine was in there and he had to make sure she didn't come in any contact with the ghost.

It couldn't be helped; he had to return to the Moulin Rouge.

He shoved the other hand into a pocket and glared up at the dark sky. This really couldn't get any worse, could it? Erik wasn't that heartless – was he?

Christian felt an unexplainable stab of guilt – or more, he knew the reason for why he felt it and tried to ignore it. In the end, he formed the sentence in his head and ended up muttering it to the dark empty courtyard.

'What you _did _was heartless.' It seemed to hang in the air; it was something he had not wanted to think about since returning to the Moulin Rouge.

Fortunately for him, he had no real time to; the doors burst open behind him and he whirled around; Zidler walked out. He blinked at Christian and boomed '_What are you doing out here?_'

'I was... thinking,' Christian said, automatically taking a step back; Zidler was not being threatening, it was simply just the decibels in the man's voice could equal to Christine belting out a high note to an extra-loud audience.

'But why?' Zidler asked and before Christian knew it he was being pushed back into the Moulin Rouge. 'It's _your _celebration in there and I have a feeling Satine would like to talk to you!'

And within seconds he was standing inside the Moulin Rouge again. He moved quickly into the crowd, trying to think of an easy way to find Satine; he could see Meg and Christine in a booth, their mouths open. He didn't want to think why so he ignored it.

Toulouse, the Argentinean and Satie were nowhere to be seen... Neither was Satine or Erik. He tried to keep his head but suddenly everyone around him, talking, dancing, singing, laughing; the volume increased and it seemed so overwhelming – he could hear _everything_, every sentence, every word, but it was becoming so –

'Christian,' Satine's voice echoed slightly in his head and he turned to smile at her.

He stopped smiling when he saw Erik standing next to her. In fact, he was pretty sure the world just stopped all around him because that one second seemed to take forever; there was the pounding heart mixed in with blind panic. The truth was (and he hadn't noticed it before) was that, though Satine looked wonderful, there was no comparison; Erik looked as though he ought to have been barred from the public's view in case he caused distractions. Christian didn't get it; had Erik _always _looked _that good?_

He then realised the world just kept moving around him so he probably should stop staring –

'– is Erik,' Satine finished, smiling grandly. He couldn't blame her, the ghost had that effect on some people –

(_Oh; and the managers would like to know who the person making you stare at a wall with a broad grin on your face for seven minutes is)_

– usually the people that didn't know him. Had Christian been the only one who really had gotten to know _anything _about the ghost? He noticed the girls who'd been talking and hoping for the ghost's death earlier were watching Erik approvingly out the corner of his eye.

Also one of the many effects Erik had on people. It wasn't unsurprising though; he was handsome, Christian was realising all over again; in fact, it was strange that Erik would be even the slightest bit interested in his character, come to think of it.

But here he couldn't think about that, in the Moulin Rouge there was no _them_, they didn't exist, they were over, it was Christian and Satine.

And right here, the mask seemed to fit right in with the scenery. He was reminded, briefly, of being locked in a chest.

'Nice to meet you,' Christian said, trying to keep the icy tone out of his voice, nodding at the ghost with cold eyes. He felt furious as well as terrified; _what are you DOING here? _

Erik's spectacular green eyes returned the look but with a more dangerous edge; his mouth, however, tilted up in a crooked smile.

How had he not noticed Erik could really be a charmer when he wanted to? All the jokes, of course, but _really_, it was right there!

Satine didn't seemed to notice the fact that both men were glaring at each other and instead she grabbed Christian's arm, pulling him a little harshly. '_Look_, I'll find you a table,' she whispered as Erik walked not very far behind them. 'I'll be doing my speech in a while.'

'I'll go sit with Toulouse for that time,' Christian said firmly; like he wanted to be alone with Erik. His heart would probably give out, he could hear it in his ears. _Stop it_, he told it angrily and kissed Satine on the cheek. She turned a little red and smiled at him. 'Are you sure?'

'Only too sure,' Christian replied, grinning slightly; it seemed like a monstrous effort.

'All right, go find him – oh, look the band's coming on!' Satine exclaimed suddenly, loud enough for everyone in the room to turn and look at the stage.

It was the four nervous-looking young men in suits. 'Um, hi,' said one, rubbing the back of his head. 'We're, um, here to be entertainment.'

Christian smiled, unaware that he really was. Then he remembered what was happening and that Satine was shifting through the crowd, who were nodding and waiting for the young man to go on.

'Uh, okay, well it's great to be here tonight, I hope everyone's having a wonderful time,' the boy said, nodding. The audience cheered. _If you knew_, Christian thought and he noticed more people were shifting through the crowd; the girls, Lily, Lucy, Rose, whatever. They were moving towards the spot he was certain Erik was; right behind him. He pretended not to notice and the band suddenly started.

'_Come with me.'_

The music began after the a cappella introduction and people started nodding, dancing to the sounds. Christian rolled his eyes, having no real time for this and was already sick of hearing Lily's voice upon 'So, who might you be?' He moved away as quickly as he could, before he could hear Erik respond in that voice that just lived on self-confidence. It was sickening to hear or watch these girls fawning over him when moments ago they'd been talking about how hopeful they were of his death.

The band were singing fully by now and people were cheering, sitting down at their tables; Christian found quickly the booth that Toulouse had been occupying was now holding Meg and Christine, who looked eager to know what was happening. Not wishing to tell them, he moved past them, towards an empty corridor, _something_.

He settled for a booth, so he could at least see where Erik was from time to time; his eyes travelled around the room as he tried to think; amongst the crowd, in a corner, there were two people who were passionately talking to each other, their arms draped around each other, their ideas of love small and new. Christian felt annoyed as soon as he saw them; which meant he already felt worse.

The band continued.

'_Don't you wanna come with me?_

_Don't you wanna feel my bones_

_On your bones? _

_It's only natural..._'

They really weren't half-bad, he would have reasoned if tonight had been completely different. But instead he was swimming in an ocean of different feelings; anger, confusion, panic, and that _stupid _feeling in his chest that was trying to tell him what to do! He was in an ocean all right and he was drowning with no real hope of getting to the top for another breath, even a _final _breath was out of the question.

_You're overreacting –_

_Oh, really, am I?! I've got a ghost here who could ruin everything about my life right now and there's nothing really to stop him! Even worse, I'm coming off thinking he looks good. This isn't a good night._

He needed to see Satine again, he needed to talk to her – he _loved her_, why couldn't anyone else just get that?

He really did have to stop hiding. He realised someone was tapping his arm; someone, a girl, was pulling him out of the booth. 'Look, we need to talk to you –'

Christian didn't even try to pull away, he needed to think. He didn't know if it was Meg, Christine, Satine... as long as Erik wasn't there.

He caught a flash of blond hair in his vision. That shade of blond wasn't Meg's. He turned his head as he realised he'd been pulled a bit around the room, to another booth, and –

'For the love of God,' Christian said as Johanna let go of his arm.

'Fancy seeing you here again,' Lucy said, draping her arms around Erik's shoulders as she nodded at Christian. He didn't even appear to mind; he smirked at Christian, who felt a cold stab of – jealousy? _Really_?

'This is Erik,' said Lily, smiling at Christian in a know-it-all way.

'I know,' Christian said, rolling his eyes and looking away; like he wanted to see this.

'I'm Lucy, that's Rose, Lily, Eva and Johanna. Now that we all know each other...'

'Yeah, can I talk to you for a minute, Erik?' Christian asked loudly, crossing his arms and glaring at the ceiling. He heard a couple of the girls irritated twitters as Erik managed to move next to Christian within a few seconds.

'Great, thanks, over here,' Christian cut in as he saw Lucy was opening her mouth again; he moved through the crowd, not bothering to see if Erik was behind him. He could have just left that scene, left it and not talked to Erik for the rest of the night, avoided him.

But no. He had to do _this_.

He found himself in an empty corridor and he almost prayed Erik hadn't followed him. But he had; God knows why he wouldn't.

Christian had thought that as soon as they were out of sight then maybe the ghost would let something show; anger, mainly. Christian could deal with that, no matter what his chest told him. That would lead to fighting, they'd both end up furious but at least Erik would just _leave_.

However, Erik looked just as he had before; he was still smirking, as if he knew something Christian didn't, and the way he was leaning against the wall was definitely casual. Only the fact that his eyes were frosty and from plain old experience helped Christian realise the ghost was nowhere near as nonchalant as he made out to be.

'What are you doing here?' Christian hissed, glaring at Erik; the ghost may not have been showing emotion, but he sure as hell could.

'I heard the celebration was on,' Erik said coolly, without missing a beat. He still looked so _calm_ in the way that told Christian he was furious. That only made him angrier.

'Yeah, great, cut the crap,' Christian said irritably as he crossed his arms again. 'Why – are – you – here?'

'Just because you rephrased that question does _not mean_ I don't – have – the same – answer,' Erik replied, somewhat amused, moving from the wall. This really hadn't been a good idea; empty corridor with someone who really wanted to kill him. Christian ignored the headache. He stood his ground, trying not to instinctively step back. He couldn't think of anything worse than this situation right now.

'I just want an explanation,' he said finally. He knew he could be either killing himself or... there wasn't really a second option. He heard noises like footsteps echoing down the rest of the halls that lay quite unused through the Moulin Rouge, not as done up as the main floor, like the Sun and the other lesser planets scattered around it.

Erik took another steps forwards and this time Christian stepped back. Erik was smiling still, a smile that did not touch his eyes... those _really _green eyes...

That still looked really angry.

'Get out of here, Erik,' Christian said sternly, feeling his back foot hit the wall. He leant against it as if it were what he meant to do all along.

'I'm absolutely terrified,' Erik told him, no longer smiling and finally stopping right in front of him, trapping him, gazing down at him, _since when had he looked this good?!_

Oh, great. He could feel his heart thumping. Good to know exactly how mixed up he was; why didn't this happen around _Satine?_

Christian kept up the glare. 'I mean it; it's over and obvious we both hate each other, so leave.'

'It's obvious, is it?' Erik asked softly, arching an eyebrow at him and glancing pointedly at Christian's lips.

Surprise grasped his mind for a moment; then suspicion. He didn't believe this; Erik wasn't like this. Nonetheless, he found himself staring at the ghost's lips too.

_Don't think about that, remember where you are_, he told himself, meeting Erik's eyes once again. 'I'm serious; leave – now.' He hated how he sounded like he was whining.

Erik smirked and Christian felt his stomach join in with his chest; this was so mixed up. Something was wrong with him. Something really was wrong with him. _Come on, keep it together, just keep talking._

He vaguely noticed the band had changed songs; this one sounded just as good though.

'_Boy, one day you'll be a man,_

_Oh, girl, you'll help him understand,_

'_Smile like you mean it...'_

Christian forgot where he was as soon as Erik crushed their lips together; he forgot about Satine, he forgot about Zidler, he lost _everything – _he knew somehow that he was going to regret it later for some reason, some weird reason that didn't matter at the moment because his heart sang out at the contact, oh hell, he was _not _thinking like this, he loved someone else, he knew it, he loved someone else, Erik's mouth was so hard against his, he tilted his head and let one of his hands snake into Erik's hair, the other wrapping around the ghost's neck, he hadn't felt this amazing in ages, his heart was beating wildly in his chest, who did he love, he didn't love anyone, dangerous thought, that was a lie, he knew it, he knew who he loved, it was easy –

He realised that throughout this time the footsteps had gotten louder – and stopped. He froze, opening his eyes slowly only to see Erik was staring back at him, eyes full of some kind of triumphant amusement. Christian let his hands fall to his sides, hoping they weren't shaking even though he could feel them.

Erik pulled back as if he couldn't bear to be near him any longer; with that he just turned and walked down the rest of the hallway. Christian stared at the wall in front of him for a moment, taking in a shaky breath as he realised what he had just done before turning and following Erik down the hallway, anger spreading through him.

He didn't turn back to see the stunned faces of Toulouse, Satie and the Argentinean.

--

The band changed songs and the crowd was back to dancing on half the floor and letting people either talk sitting or standing on the other half. Meg noticed after a while that Toulouse and the others hadn't come back from trying to find Christian. She sighed and shrugged at Christine. 'What are we going to do? We can't get them back together by tomorrow night... maybe we should just lock them in a room.'

'I don't know how. Erik seems to be able to get out of anywhere. Except possibly prison,' Christine shrugged. Meg rolled her eyes.

'So we get them both arrested. How?'

Christine thought about it. She felt overtired and therefore too hyper. 'Um. Hm. Well, I'm certain if – no. Well, hey, we could – no. Oh.'

Meg nodded. 'Right. That's our problem.' She glanced around the room and her eyes widened. 'Oh, no.'

'What?' Christine asked, turning to see what Meg was looking at. She could see through the crowds that Erik had appeared from somewhere, looking a little smug whilst also fairly innocent. It wasn't in that fake way; he was just settling back into his usual aura of confidence and charm.

He'd disappeared almost immediately. Christian had exited from the same dark hall Erik had, looking thoroughly pissed off. He looked around for a minute, found who he wanted and moved out of sight.

'Oh, no,' Christine said, her stomach dropping like a wheelbarrow full of lead.

--

Christian moved in front of the ghost, who blinked at him then rolled his eyes. The crowd moved around them, not noticing anything, all having fun and enjoying themselves like they should be.

'What the hell are you playing at?' Christian snapped. He could feel the fury running through his veins with the blood.

'Seriously?' Erik asked, arching an eyebrow and glaring back at him but much more intensely; it nearly made him turn around and leave.

'Do you _know _what you just did?' Christian went on loudly, ignoring the ghost's comment.

Erik stared at him. '_Yes_,' he said as if Christian were an idiot to think otherwise; he turned to leave when Christian grabbed his arm and pulled him back to face him.

He knew at once that had been a mistake; Erik grabbed his wrist and twisted it painfully, holding it there. Christian forced the sound to die in his throat; Erik's left eye twitched as the writer held a straight face.

'I thought you hated me,' Christian snarled, venom laced in every word.

'I _do_, believe me on that one,' Erik replied smoothly whilst the writer did his best to ignore that statement, like he even cared. Everyone around them really was oblivious to their lives; no one had told them to stop or to calm down and have a drink.

'Then how could you even stand _that_?' Christian retorted, using his head to gesture back to the corridors that held the stations most people who worked at the Moulin Rouge lived in.

'Funny, it sounds like now _you're _trying to convince yourself we're not over,' Erik said, smirking at him.

'I'm just wondering how I can forget about it later with Satine.' The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them – it wasn't even a particularly good comeback but it obviously hit home with Erik. The ghost's eyes blazed and he twisted Christian's wrist further.

Christian let out of a hiss of pain through his teeth as the white hot waves rolled up his arm; Erik let go of his arm, no longer smiling. 'Don't sound so hung up over it, Satine's done worse – she's probably slept with every man in this room,' he gestured around the room.

'_Shut – up_,' Christian warned, gritting his teeth. He pushed past the ghost, fully intending to walk away. 'You don't know what you're talking about,' he added, because he _had _to defend Satine, he loved her, of course he did. He felt sick from what he did, it was worse that the dream he'd had, much worse –

'I've slept with her,' Erik said.

--


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

Christian froze.

Everything around him blurred, the sound dulled out and any thought that had been going through his head died. His mind had literally gone blank with shock.

He turned slowly and stared at Erik. He couldn't be serious. Yet there he was, still looking at ease, sure of himself and truthful.

Christian opened his mouth to say something – but nothing came out, he had nothing to say, no real way to react with words, it just seemed to flow through him. He felt _really_... hurt. He couldn't do anything but stare and try to think of something to say but any will for a comeback had left him.

He shouldn't really care about this. He knew he shouldn't. He really had to stop making big deals out of things like this. And if he cared about anything it would be that _Satine _slept with Erik, not that _Erik _slept with Satine.

His chest really hurt now and he felt almost like his knees would give way.

That was around when Satine appeared out of nowhere, grabbing his arm and blabbing on like nothing had happened. She had no real idea what they had just talked about, the small, reasonable part of his mind said – he glared at her. She didn't notice, instead, motioning for Erik to follow, smiling. Christian looked at the floor, trying to grasp some kind of thought to hang onto, _anything _to block out what Erik had just said to him.

Satine pulled him along whereas Erik just followed, obviously pleased by Christian's reaction. He couldn't hear a word they were saying. He didn't _want _to hear what they were saying; he was suddenly sick of the Moulin Rouge, sick of everything it stood for, there was no love in this place, just hate or pretending.

He realised he'd been scared of something like this ever since Erik told him where he had first heard Christian sing, in the Elephant for Satine, but he'd always wondered what Erik had been doing there in the first place. He'd never expected that _this..._

'You all right?' Satine's voice sounded annoying and high-pitched as he sat down at the table she'd stopped at. He saw Erik sit down too, enjoying the situation.

'Yeah, fine,' Christian lied easily, smiling up at her. He _made _his face change, made his eyes change, so that there wasn't any way for her to know what was on his mind.

She smiled back, leaning down and kissing him gently. Christian tried to put an apology for what she didn't know about into it and he noticed Erik was suddenly glaring pointedly across the room.

It was good to know at least he could still piss him off. In fact, it made him feel better.

Satine smiled at him as she pulled back. He was alarmed that he had a sudden urge to kill her. 'This band is _amazing_, isn't it?' she exclaimed, gesturing to the stage.

_Sure they are. Why do I hate you? Oh, right, because you two slept together. My mistake._

Christian blinked. Where was _that _coming from? It sure as hell wasn't true! He shrugged. 'Yeah, they're good.'

'Are you _sure _you're okay?' Satine asked, raising one eyebrow and pouting. That really was a stupid expression, he wished she'd stop with it.

'Yeah, fine,' Christian said, smiling at her again. 'When are you up?'

Satine shrugged and said, 'Oh, I'm not – _oh, my God_!' she squeaked, realising something and running off, disappearing into the crowd.

'Are you sure you're okay?' Erik's mocking tone floated into his head.

'Look, you've officially screwed up a few things, I don't know what's keeping you,' Christian said smoothly, not looking at the ghost. He didn't know what he would do.

He could just _tell _that Erik was smirking at him. 'What?' he asked irritably.

'It's just the fact that you _think _you're being insulting –'

'Why did you even come back?' Christian snapped , standing up and glaring at the ghost. 'I left; I've got nothing to do with you now. Nothing to do with you _or _your madness,' he added.

Erik's left eye twitched.

'So, really,' Christian continued, 'why are you here?'

'Why do you think?' Erik replied, his fury masquerading into a mocking tone. 'Use your head, Christian.'

They glared at each other, waiting to see which one would break the eye contact first. Christian was determined it wouldn't be him but Erik seemed unfazed.

The band changed. 'All right, we have time for one last song before the wonderful lady Satine gives her speech, along with Harold Zidler,' the singer said, looking a little awkward and smiling out at the crowd. There were cheers and claps and wolf-whistles.

'Okay, here we go –'

Christian looked away, feeling his hands clench on the table. He had never felt so angry in his life, he decided, as he stared at the band, who were playing again. Or had he? He remembered vaguely thinking Satine had told him she didn't love him –

_(Who really cares?)_

And couldn't really know for sure.

'_I'm coming out of my cage _

_And I've been doing just fine_

_Gotta-gotta be down because I want it all_

_It started out with a kiss_

_How did it end up like this?_

_It was only a kiss _

_It was only a kiss..._'

Erik turned his head and stared at the band on stage. He'd only really started paying attention to the lyrics when he realised there was nothing else really to do as Christian had his stare-off with the floor. And he was interested now.

'_Now they're going to bed_

_And my stomach is sick _

_And it's all in my head _

_But she's touching his chest now_

_He takes off her dress now_

_Letting me go...'_

Okay. This was starting to get a little strange. He looked away from the stage and instead stared at Christian, who was in some kind of trance as he wasn't noticing anything around him. He was thinking about something, staring at the floor. Erik's hand, which had been drumming his fingers on the table, clenched into a fist.

'_And I just can't look_

_It's killing me_

_And taking control..._

'_Jealousy turning saints into the sea_

_Swimming through sick lullabies_

_Choking on your alibis_

_But it's just the price I pay_

_Destiny is calling me_

_Open up my eager eyes..._

_Cause I'm Mr Brightside.'_

Erik glowered at the floor and wondered exactly how he could stop the lyrics from floating into his head. He actually _wanted _Christian to say something, just so he could fight back, it would be so _easy _–

Christian snapped out of his reverie, looking up at the stage. Satine was motioning behind the curtain for the band to get off quickly, as they were taking too much time. Everyone else was dancing to the song, which was undeniably catchy, but Christian couldn't get into it. He had too much on his mind. The lead singer noticed Satine's movements, gave a brief nod and proceeded to wrap up the song.

'_I never..._

_I never..._

_I never..._

_I never..._'

The applause was wild. It really seemed to fill the whole room. Christian suddenly saw every face; Meg and Christine, looking worried, Toulouse, the Argentinean and Satie, looking surprised and confused, Satine, looking annoyed and getting ready for her fake actress smile, Zidler, looking tired – it all really made no sense.

And then he remembered who he was sitting with and the anger welled back in him; he sat down, ignoring Satine as she walked out on the stage to say some words that did not matter and said, 'Erik, you should leave. Right now.'

Erik glanced sideways at him and playfully raised an eyebrow.

'We're both just going to get angrier at each other,' Christian reasoned, shaking his head. 'Look, I'm begging you, _go _–'

'I thought things were going well,' Erik interrupted and Christian thought he was talking about _now _until he realised what the ghost meant. He had that same predatory glint in his eyes, that same cold smirk. He hadn't noticed he'd been holding his breath. Instead, he looked away, feeling incredibly guilty all of a sudden. 'Erik, just stop it –'

'So imagine my surprise,' Erik continued, over the top of him, '_imagine my surprise _when suddenly Satine's alive and you think you can just leave.'

'Okay, I get it, you hate me,' Christian snapped. 'I got that the moment you walked in.'

'No, you didn't,' Erik said, shaking his head. 'You really haven't.'

'What d'you mean, of course I do!' Christian rolled his eyes, putting his head in his hands. 'You're killing me here.'

(_never knew I could feel like this please leave me alone)_

Erik held back a laugh; Christian could see it. He growled 'Okay, fine, tell me what I don't understand.'

(_come what may)_

Erik shook his head, once again looking like he was trying not to laugh. Christian was briefly reminded of both of them, when they'd been friends, more than friends, just moments like that when one had acted like an idiot without realising it and they'd just laughed about it after a moment.

_(my gift is my song and this one's for you)_

He heard Satine's voice; 'And let's not forget who else is a part of this celebration –'

Fine. If that was how Erik wanted to play it.

Satine mentioned his name and gestured for him to come up; the applause rang up around his ears. Without really thinking, he got to his feet and ran up to the stage, getting up on without any difficulty and, before she could do anything, kissed her. He heard the crowd cheering and she tilted her head, throwing her arms around his neck. He pulled her closer to him by putting his hands on her waist. The crowd whooped louder and Christian pulled back, realising he could barely stand doing this. He smiled at Satine, even though inside he was really _confused_ and Satine smiled back dazedly, looking as though she might fall over.

He took his arms off her as if burned but she didn't notice, instead smiling and pretending to curtsey for the crowd. Christian averted his eyes from the people cheering, feeling slightly sick – _guilty –_ and he jumped off stage, shoving his hands in his pockets as the people clapped for him. He nodded, staring at the ground as he made it back to the table, not wanting to look at Erik.

'Okay, so that was stupid,' he admitted.

He wasn't surprised that the ghost didn't reply.

Satine finished her speech with a few words that didn't matter and that people should see the performance at the Opera Populaire tomorrow night for Christian had done that and the applause was heard all through Paris.

--

She moved around the table, sipping her glass of water. It had taken for_ever _to actually move towards it with all the people talking to her, congratulating her on Christian, and the fact she was still _alive_, it was _amazing_. She sighed and felt someone tap her shoulder.

She turned around and came face-to-face with a brown-eyed girl. Her hair was curly and hung down her back. She was very beautiful and she smiled.

'Hello, there,' said Christine. She noticed Satine took a moment before she smiled back. 'Hi.'

'That was a wonderful speech you did,' Christine said admiringly. She didn't like this woman one bit. _What does Christian _see _in her? _

'Thank you,' Satine said, obviously flattered by the fact her smile at once became more real. 'Um, your name is...?'

'Christine,' Christine said, offering her hand. Satine shook it. 'That's a lovely name. Where are you from?'

'The Opera Populaire,' Christine nodded.

Satine's eyebrows raised and she smiled. 'Ah, so you know Christian?'

'Yes, quite well. We're really good friends.'

To her surprise, the woman's eyes narrowed. 'Really good friends?'

'Yes,' Christine said, wondering what she could have misinterpreted 'really good friends' as. She mentally clapped a hand to her forehead as she realised; _idiot! _'Not like _that_,' she added with a laugh. 'I mean, we were just friends. Me, him and Meg –'

'Meg?' Satine asked, frowning.

'Friends,' Christine said, rolling her eyes. 'I've got a husband.'

'Congratulations,' Satine said, sounding like she couldn't care less. Christine didn't mind; she was liking Satine less and less.

'Okay, well, I'm off to find him now,' Christine said, as brightly as she could, turning away.

Satine grabbed her arm. 'I beg your pardon?' she asked dangerously.

Christine rolled her eyes. This was not going as she'd planned.

--

Christian felt so mixed up at the moment. He tried to sort out his emotions; there was anger, yes, guilt, check, confusion, double check, misery, check, dull surprise, check, and his heart was beating as fast as possible while his stomach did that stupid flippy thing again. He looked up, trying to think of something to say to Erik – and stopped.

Satine was walking towards their table, tugging a nervous-looking Christine by the arm. Her mouth dropped open when she saw Erik sitting at the table and looked at Christian fearfully.

'Christian,' Satine snapped, stopping in front of them, 'do you mind telling me who this is?'

Christian stared at her, bewildered. 'That's Christine de Chagny, married to the Vicomte de Chagny. She sings at the Opera Populaire, she's basically amazing. She's a friend of mine.'

Christine glowed with pleasure. Erik rolled his eyes, obviously ignoring this entire conversation; Christian felt guilt hit him again and ignored it – nonetheless, it's hard to ignore your heart feeling suddenly heavy and wrong in your chest. _Stop it!_

Satine simply glared at him. 'A friend. Right.'

'What?' Christian asked, frowning at her.

'Don't look at me like that,' Satine spat. 'I know what you're thinking.'

'Satine, what are you talking about?' Christian asked, folding his arms across his chest. 'She's a friend of mine – hell, she's playing _you _tomorrow night.'

Even now Erik was staring at Satine; he was the only one that looked ready to kill her if she didn't leave though. Christian wished Satine would move out of Erik's lunging range. He winced at the thought of them together and the hurt spread through him all over again.

'Oh, that's just _brilliant_,' Satine said, letting go of Christine's arm. The soprano rubbed her arm and glared at Satine defiantly. Then she looked at Christian apologetically. 'I _told her _we were friends and she jumped to conclusions –'

'Oh, there you go, just bitch and moan to him, why don't you?' snapped Satine, turning around and glaring at Christine, whose mouth dropped open.

'_Satine_,' the writer said, angrily –

'I didn't do _anything_, stop acting like I did!' Christine had found her voice and it was shrill.

'Of _course _not,' Satine replied scathingly.

'The only snogging you should be worrying about is those two!' Christine trilled, pointing to Erik then to Christian. Satine arched her eyebrows, the soprano clapped both hands to her mouth, Christian's mouth dropped open and Erik simply stood up and walked towards the doors, disappearing through them swiftly as though a shadow.

Christian didn't think twice; he was on his feet before Satine could turn on him or before Christine could apologise; he ran past the people, out the door and into the night. It was raining, like it had the other night, and he could see the ghost's outline walking out the front doors that acted like gates, underneath the windmill sign. Suddenly desperate for the ghost not to leave, the writer put on a burst of speed. He needed to explain something, _everything_ – Erik couldn't go – he made it out the gates, he needed to tell the ghost –

'Erik –' he began but he got no further; with that, the ghost seemingly lost control, swung around and punched Christian square in the face.

Christian stumbled back, the side of his face going from white-hot to numb; he'd known Erik was strong, he'd _known_ that, and he'd hoped never to be on the receiving end of the ghost's anger. He knew his cheek had split open, only a small cut from the blow Erik had dealt him and he could taste blood; his drenched hair was in his vision and he was freezing, his vision disorientated and blurred as he fell back against the wall.

And that was when it really seemed to hit him; Erik _hated _him. _Really hated him_, more than Raoul, more than anyone, because of what he'd done. Christian's chest suddenly hurt distressingly, much worse than before and he realised that his knees were threatening to let him fall, he was shaking unbelievably –

He felt hands around his neck and realised quite suddenly he couldn't breathe. He grabbed Erik's wrists, choking, trying to get free – his vision was going dark – _he really _hates_ me _–

Then he was being released; he slid down the wall, gasping, choking on the rainwater that was streaming down his face. He heard the footsteps indicating the ghost was leaving, gone, gone forever and he'd done it, why did he care?

For the first time since Spectacular, Spectacular, the writer cried – _really _cried, in the rain, barely aware of what he was doing, and no one noticed. But if someone had compared this to what he'd been like after Satine's so-called death, they wouldn't have wanted to answer in case they thought it would injure Satine's pride.

**--**

**Poor Christian.**

**Yes, the band playing at the Moulin Rouge is the Killers (love them so MUCH) and my friend and I were listening to Mr Brightside on a train when we were like 'Holy crap! This is Erik!' **

**I feel so sad. :( I'll try to update as soon as I can. But in the meantime, reviews are appreciated – hope you enjoyed reading :D **


	28. Chapter 28

**Short chapter. But mental nonetheless.**

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

The first thing he realised when he woke up was that he was warm. The second was that his hair hadn't completely dried yet.

He sat up, pushing the various multicoloured blankets off him; he was shocked by the sudden cold air. He realised why; one of the windows he was staring out of was broken.

_This is not the Elephant_, he realised, looking around at the faded walls and the new things that had been tossed carelessly around the room. The clothes he was wearing now – less formal than the ones last night – were dry, thank God. He found a coat on the floor, pulled it on and began to search for shoes.

He realised where he was: he was in Toulouse's apartment, in the spare room, and –

His blood ran cold. He was in Toulouse's apartment.

Christian looked out the window; the sun was sinking in the sky. He had to stop waking up so late. An odd pang hit him as he remembered the show was on tonight; a spark of pain lit up in his cheek and in his chest. He remembered he'd been hit in the face by –

His throat closed up and he stopped looking for the left shoe, reaching his hand up to his face and touching the healed skin. Trying to ignore the thought, he shook his head, a little desperately. After everything that had happened last night, Toulouse and the others had brought him to their apartment. How was he even going to look them in the eye? Would they even _want _to look him in the eye?

Judging by the movement from the other room, they were still here, probably waiting for him to wake up. His throat was dry and his chest was aching terribly, so much that he felt he might throw up. He didn't bother trying to tell himself it was all in his head; he remembered _crying_, only for a little while, that was stupid, _was it really? _

Then it was all cold, wet, misery, darkness. Right; he could barely breathe after what Erik – the Ghost – had done and in the end unconsciousness won. He gladly gave in.

What time was it now? Did he even care? Could he even go back to the Opera Populaire after leaving Christine to deal with Satine last night –?

_Satine! _What the hell was he going to tell her? 'Oh, yeah, when I thought you'd died, I might have lost my heart to an Opera Ghost. Just putting it out there –' _Hold on – LOST MY HEART? Exaggerating, right._

Why did he leave Satine last night? Why didn't he just _stay _with her, not go after the Ghost?

He put his hands to his head, giving a small groan. What could he do? He had to explain to Toulouse, the Argentinean and Satie – what _could _he say to them? They'd seen much worse than Satine had heard – or more, if she believed Christine's statement, heard exactly what his friends had seen.

He could always just run through and pretend not to remember; he could pretend he was drunk or something and got... confused, oh crap, what was he going to do? That wouldn't work at all.

_Just walk out of here, find Satine, and explain something. See if Christine said anything afterwards._

Hell, he'd left the Opera Populaire; it shouldn't be a part of his life now. Tonight was supposed to be the night he could forget everything and finally go on living. Avoiding his mother and father. Living with Satine, everyone at the Moulin Rouge. Not really being bothered.

But _no_.

'Help,' he realised he was praying. 'Please help me.'

He got to his feet (he had found the other shoe) and ran a hand through his hair. He lifted his head and walked to the bedroom's door. He took a deep breath and opened it.

His first thought was _Damn! I could have gone out the windows! _

Three heads swivelled to look at him then swiftly looked away. They didn't look disgusted, that was the good part. But they looked – afraid to meet his eyes, unsure of what to say, unsure of what to think.

Disgust might have been better. Arguing made it easier to get out of a room!

Christian swallowed, rubbing the back of his head. 'Thank you,' he said lamely, but clearly.

Toulouse continued washing plates, not looking at him. The Argentinean continued reading a book upside-down. Satie must've suddenly felt drowsy because now he was asleep. The only indication that he had been heard was the nod Toulouse gave.

Christian had enough; he walked swiftly across the room, opened the door and lunged out, slamming it behind him. It was chilly out here; the sunlight was disappearing rapidly.

He'd been out for a long time. His chest constricted painfully as he thought of why and he stuck his hands deep into his coat pockets, keeping his head down as he trudged across the hallway, down the stairs and out, blissful outside, wondrous outside where no one would talk to him.

He stood there on the dirty ground, staring at the Moulin Rouge. He saw everything that had happened last night from a different view, sometime from across the room or sometimes right next to himself. He could see his eyebrows rising when Satine and Christine were snapping at each other, could see himself trying not to laugh as Toulouse tried to 'charm' Meg, could see the Ghost punching him across the face, the top half of his body, spinning to the right, his legs barely holding him up from the shock.

He kept staring until someone yelled at another person about their cat being in the wrong house and the other person yelling that they didn't own a cat and if they did it wouldn't be called Mister Tibbles, and decided to leave quickly before that argument got out of hand; both men sounded very drunk. As he walked swiftly away, he heard a drunken moan, 'Awright, awright, 'e's my ca', come _here, _Mistah Tibbles...'

Ignoring the ever so normal lives of people and their cats, Christian moved at once more quickly. He needed to get to the Opera Populaire, get it over with and _leave_, leave and never come back, forget _everything_, why did his chest _hurt so much?!_ –

'WHAT IS _WRONG _WITH ME?!' he yelled suddenly to the empty street he was travelling down. Something in an alley gave a startled yelp at his outburst and scampered away. But Christian didn't just mean his chest; how could anyone be as cruel as he had? He'd left the Opera Populaire for an old life, _though it was his life now_, he'd left it all and for –

He really had to get to the Opera Populaire.

--

He ran the rest of the way there. When he got there, he bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath as he looked up at the grand building. It caught in his throat again when he saw the lines of people outside the Opera House.

They were all coming to see it. Posh-looking ladies, pompous men and what looked like _a lot _of rich snobs, but nonetheless they were _here_. He felt like he was about to throw up again. They'd hate it, he knew it, they'd all hate it. He stared; the sun was _nearly down _and he could hear their excitement, they'd be going in soon and they could talk about it as much as they wanted to, how this play was so different to anything they'd seen.

He caught the words '_Don Juan Triumphant' _a few times through the crowd but paid no attention to it – yeah, like he would.

Christian knew he could find Meg, Christine, Madame Giry, hell, Carlotta_, _behind stage butwould the others be in there? Satine, Zidler? He had a feeling Raoul would watch from a Box and the Ghost – holy _hell_, would the ghost be there? His chest shrunk painfully and he hoped not.

The moon had come out; tonight it was full and its face looked neutral. He could see the poster that had been put up for his play – _play_, it wasn't an _opera_, there was singing in it, yes, but nothing amazing, just what had happened in real life – the play he hadn't been able to give a title. He couldn't think of anything for it. But the poster read the words _Moulin Rouge! _

He blinked; it plainly said Moulin Rouge, French for Red Mill, and the aristocratic gods of Paris had come out to see it.

He really had to throw up.

And then there was a voice, a middle-aged female voice which sounded so _familiar _and it said 'Good God, it _that _Christian, over there? Do you think he can see us? _Christian_, over here!'

He bolted; there was nothing else left to do – he scooted up the steps and ran through the doors, ignoring the people who snapped after him 'Ahem, there is a _line_, young man!' All he needed right now was to know he could just _hide _somewhere.

People were pouring in suddenly; he looked around in case Firmin and Andre were around to tell him what was happening, to tell him that they'd let the audience in and the play would begin in a few minutes, that –

He stopped and looked around; the opera house truly was beautiful on the inside, grand and old. He'd missed that.

Breathing in, he ran as fast as he could, past all the memories every step held, as long as he could make it to backstage. He bumped shoulders with someone, muttered a hasty apology and continued to walk, even after he heard Raoul call out '_Christian?_'

And he was past the staircase that would lead him up to his old room, where his typewriter still was. It was like walking into the first place you'd ever lived as a child, when you were an old man; every little detail held an emotion, surprise, pain, happiness, whether it was an old staircase you'd fallen down, a door you'd hit your elbow on every time you walked through it or the bed you slept in until you decided to leave home.

He couldn't see Toulouse or the Argentinean – he didn't notice them as he ran as well. Perhaps they weren't coming. He couldn't blame them if they didn't; seeing their _friend _with his tongue in another man's mouth after he was forever going on about how much he loved Satine, even though he'd been 'diagnosed' with _lovesickness _wasn't a very good image, he supposed. Hell, he _knew _– the Ghost had been hoping for that to happen.

He moved quickly into the backstage, hearing the chorus girls heavy thanks that he had suddenly returned but not really noticing them; he saw Christine chewing her fingernails, looking terrified (_obviously over what happened last night_), Meg practising with other girls, the man who was playing him running his hands through his hair so much it was sticking up and –

Carlotta suddenly screeched and he turned to look at what she was staring at. He realised she was staring at him, her mouth wide open. Everyone around turned to stare at him too, jaws dropping and eyes widening everywhere. Christian took an involuntary step back and someone tapped his shoulder. He turned around and Madame Giry slapped him across the face.

He winced – it had been where the ghost had hit him – his head turned to the right with the aftermath of her hand when suddenly she gave a little sound that sounded almost, _almost_ like a choked sob. Then she threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

That was when all the talking began; a lot of people had missed him and he was surprised as to how many people knew his name. He felt happy to be home as he tried to hug as many people as he could back.

_This isn't your home_.

He saw the sandy-haired man sitting on a crate, watching the events fold out before him but not noticing them too much; he looked deep in thought. When everyone was through talking to him (he noticed Meg and Christine had disappeared) he went and sat down on a crate next to the man.

'Bad day?' Christian asked.

The other man smiled. He was wearing a simple bow tie, dress shirt and dark pants. 'How'd you guess?'

'Luck.' The other man chuckled lightly. He extended his hand. 'Anton.'

'Nice to meet you, Anton. Haven't I seen you around the Moulin Rouge before?'

Anton glanced over at him. 'You're from the Moulin Rouge, huh?

Christian blinked – the man didn't _know him_. That was a relief, oddly enough. 'Yeah. I think I've seen you with Satine.'

Anton blinked, his grey eyes wide. '_Who?_'

Okay, now this was confusing. The man who he saw around Satine AKA the Sparkling Diamond _all the time _didn't know her name. He hit a mental blank for a moment and Anton asked, 'What's your name again, sorry?' He looked and _sounded _like a fairly rich man and he was... Christian supposed Meg would call him good-looking but thinking about that made him feel sick.

'Tall woman. Red hair, blue eyes... main event at the Moulin Rouge...'

The other laughed. '_Satine?_'

Christian stared. 'Um, yeah.' He looked up suddenly, hoping there was no one in the rafters. His heart should be pumping at the mention of his lady's name, he should be falling over with the amount of love he held for her, he should at least feel his stomach flutter when he thought of her... he didn't. And yet the thought of the Ghost, somewhere up there, or _anywhere _was enough to make him feel nothing but pain.

He _hated _Christian. That was the plain truth. And it was _his fault_, he had to screw up everything didn't he? He felt tears threatening and stopped, feeling almost terrified; he loved Satine, he loved Satine –

'Her name's Elieutte,' Anton said, still laughing a little.

Christian gave him a grim smile. So Satine told him a different name. Showed how much the man knew about the Moulin Rouge. 'Actually, her name's Satine. I don't know what she's been telling _you_, but –'

'Yeah, sure,' Anton cut across him, rolling his eyes. 'I don't know what _you've heard_, but I've been with her _way _before Paris, good man – I met her in England, where she'd been staying for about three years.'

Christian stared at him. 'What?'

'Oh, mate,' said Anton, staring at him with pity and amusement, 'didn't you hear? Satine was Elieutte's sister, that's right, I remember, younger twin by thirty minutes. Elieutte basically left Paris when the only business was brothels. Instead, Satine became the amazing star. Fell in love with that writer. Then she died.'

Christian stared at him. 'Yeah, she died.' He felt nothing after he said that; Satine was dead and gone, and it didn't pain him to say it.

'And Zidler heard that this writer – you know, one who organised this play, in fact, I'm certain it's their story, you'll see it tonight – was making the money roll in. _One idea_ and everyone wants to hear it.'

Christian didn't remember making the money roll in – was everyone _that _excited? He let Anton continued, listening intently. 'And?'

'And, well, he get Elieutte to move back down here, offering her a lot of money to be her sister – they looked _exactly alike_, no kidding, huh? So he could get that writer back. Told everyone she was alive.'

So Toulouse hadn't known. Nobody had known. Christian felt another world crash around his head and he knew this time he deserved it. Anton was the secret lover to Elieutte here, and he was the Duke, the thing keeping them apart. It made sense – the fights with Zidler, the odd things she did.

_That's why you didn't love her, it wasn't the right Satine_, a part of his mind said weakly. He told it to shut up as he realised what he'd done – he had an odd feeling within him now, something that made him realise that if it all happened again, he wouldn't say 'yes' to Toulouse, even if it _was _the real Satine.

_No, that's not true, you love her!_

_No, I don't. _

He felt like an idiot – he'd ruined his life. Oh, God, he _was _lovesick... the Argentinean had seen it all along. It just took one complete disaster of a night to realise it...

'_And did you really think I'd fallen in love with you?'_

_Did I? _

He put his head in his hands, feeling horror and misery and dread run through him. What had he _done? _What was he _going _to do?

'By the way, I never did get your name,' Anton's voice twittered.

Christian sat up and extended his hand. 'I'm Christian, the writer. Nice to meet you.'

**--**

**:) Hope you enjoyed! Reviews are appreciated! **


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

Anton's mouth dropped open. Within a few moments it shut with a snap. 'R-right,' he said shakily. 'Um, w-well, about that –'

'Oh, don't care,' Christian muttered, standing up and walking away. He didn't want to have to deal with Anton's stuttering as he tried to clear up a mistake.

So Zidler had used him. He didn't know whether he thought it an evil thing or not – certainly the man had 'the show's' best intentions at heart. That had always been the case, through his romance with Satine; the show must go on.

He heard noises indicating that the show, _Moulin Rouge_, had started – he stopped dead, waiting to hear the audience's whispers of confusion or distaste, how this was a stupid idea and –

A voice cut into his head. '_The hills are alive... with the sound of music!_'

He couldn't help but grin as he remembered how that had happened. The events flashed before him; Audrey screaming at them and leaving, the Argentinean crashing through his roof, Toulouse dressed as a nun. It was just a snippet of how crazy his life really was.

And then everything seemed to flash by in his head; Satine's death, a year of denial, finally writing their story down, happening to just wake up one morning and think, _just think_, that he could sell it, the Opera Populaire, Raoul, fights, friends, getting locked in a _chest_, stolen kisses, 'love', the whole shebang. Leaving. Trying to forget.

And really losing at this game they called life.

His heart was thumping wildly in his chest, his mouth was dry and he felt awful.

He had to thank Satine though. If he'd never met her, he never would have met Erik.

His entire _being _went crazy just at the thought of the ghost; only again there was that horrible realisation of him screwing everything up. He took a deep breath in. He had to find Elieutte, explain he knew what was going on, think of something to do. He didn't feel angry at her. He felt more like she'd done what she had to do; she'd seemed so relieved after realising they didn't have to go further than kissing. And he was glad.

He felt horribly like the Duke. God, what had Zidler been _thinking_, forcing Elieutte to do –?

Had he forced her to do anything? It appeared to Christian that Elieutte had done it all for her younger twin. Twin. He hadn't even _known _Satine had a family. Had he even bothered to ask?

No. He hadn't. He'd asked Erik after five minutes though. It didn't mean anything, he knew that, but it just seemed funny. He really did know more about the Ghost than anyone else did, probably even Madame Giry. He felt himself flushing and he changed that thought; he knew _a lot _more than Madame Giry.

_He didn't know what time it was and he didn't know where he was. He sat up straight only to have Erik pull him back down again._

_Christian sighed, trying not to laugh. 'What time is it?'_

'_Go back to sleep.' Erik's voice was a sleepy warning._

'_What was that?' Christian pressed, sitting up again. Erik gave a muffled growl of annoyance and Christian smirked. He felt the smirk leave his face suddenly. 'We're in the _storage room_.'_

_Erik's silence meant 'So what?'_

'Anyone_ can come in here!' Christian said a little frantically and looked around for his shirt. Erik let out a bark of laughter and Christian ignored him. He heard Erik moving and snapped, 'Aren't you even a little bit worried?'_

'_Not when I locked the door, no, not really.'_

_Christian glared at him. 'And you planned on telling me that when?'_

'_Just now.' _

'_I hate you,' Christian said, rolling his eyes and falling back down on the bed. Really, who left _a bed _in a storage room. He noticed the chest he'd locked himself in and held back a laugh. He noticed Erik had gone quiet and wondered if the ghost had misunderstood his last statement._

'_I didn't mean really,' Christian said easily, turning his head to look at the ghost. He felt one corner of his mouth go up. Erik had just gone back to sleep._

'_Can you hear me?' Christian asked quietly, suddenly interested._

'_Go back to sleep,' Erik muttered, covering Christian's mouth with one hand. He felt the writer smile._

Christian stared at the walls. His chest was killing him now. He felt like it would implode – not in the good way, either. And yes, there was in fact a good way.

He had to find Elieutte.

--

He still hadn't found her even after Christine had sung her 'Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend' song. He leaned against a door, trying to think. He didn't think she'd be in the audience – she might not even be watching. There was always the odd chance she was in a Box –

_Box Five, go check it, he might be there._

And if she _was_, well that wasn't too great. He was _certain _she'd be backstage.

Without warning, Carlotta stalked in front of him. She glared at him and snapped her fingers. 'You are as _bad _as him!' she shrilled, pointing to the rafters.

'The Ghost?' Christian asked, arching an eyebrow.

Carlotta gave a haughty nod. 'You didn't _ee_van come back!'

Her heavily accented voice was giving him a headache. 'You're doing great, by the way.'

Her face changed almost immediately. It turned from an angry snarl into a beatific smile. She clapped her hands together and Christian decided she had the mental stability of a child of three.

'Have you seen Satine?' Christian asked. No one else knew she was Elieutte.

'Maybe,' Carlotta said slyly. 'Why should I tell you?'

'Because my life depends on it,' he shrugged; it amazed him how he could say that and still sound bored. Inside however, he was going crazy. He needed to find that girl.

Carlotta must've been impressed with his way of answering because her eyebrows rose up high on her head. The make-up and the glitter made her look like some kind of deranged fairy. Nini hadn't worn glitter but other than that they were pretty close. 'She is back there, talking to that Anton boy. I think he like-a me.'

'I'm certain he does,' Christian said tiredly. Suddenly he jumped to his feet and ran to where he thought Elieutte would be.

Carlotta had pointed in a direction that had definitely led to the storage room. He needed to think of what he could tell her, _think_, _think_, _think _–

And suddenly he was there. He looked down at the doorknob.

(_What did you mean by convenient places?_)

If he opened that and Elieutte was in there and he told her what he knew and she left – then what? He didn't want to go back to the Moulin Rouge because he knew if he did Zidler would get what he wanted in the end. And he _couldn't _stay in the Opera Populaire – not after he'd tried so hard to get away from it. Sure, the others would love him to stay. But it wasn't the others he cared about so much.

Taking a deep breath and deciding whatever would happen would happen, he opened the door.

And stared.

Elieutte pulled back from Anton with a little squeak and stared at him in quick horror then incredibly fake happiness. Anton's head swivelled from Christian to Elieutte. He looked fearful – Christian guessed he hadn't told Elieutte what had happened. He also had lipstick smeared across his face.

'Oh – darling – thank God you're here,' Elieutte said, running her hand through her hair. 'I was just waiting for the – play to start and –'

'It's going,' Christian said smoothly, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice. Hell, he'd be in misery later, might as well enjoy himself while he could.

'Oh! Is it really? Um...' Elieutte kicked Anton in the shin.

'Ow! Yes, well –'

'You've got lipstick there.' Christian motioned to the side of his lips.

Anton turned a bit red and hastily wiped the side of his face. Elieutte, on the other hand, stayed pale yet flustered. It was odd that Anton was older than him – or older looking, only by a few years – and that he still managed to feel like the eldest mature person in this situation.

Which was stupid, because he really wasn't mature _at all._ He held back a laugh at the situation and tried to remember how serious everything was.

'Right,' Christian said, 'now that we've cleared this up, you can go. You don't have to have anything to do with me now, I know everything.'

Anton turned to Elieutte to explain hastily what had happened. 'Looksomething –'

'I beg your pardon,' Elieutte said dangerously, standing from the bed. She looked haughtily at him and he remembered that look on Satine – the look that meant he was crossing into dangerous territory. She was still acting – she didn't know.

'You're pardoned,' Christian replied coolly. _Stop being sarcastic, this is _serious –

Elieutte's mouth opened partly. She shut it again and continued to glare, placing a hand on her hip. 'I'd have you know that –'

'I'm not looking for a fight, I'm just saying you can go,' Christian said, staring at her.

'Do you mind telling me what yesterday was about?' Elieutte snapped at him.

Christian glared at her. 'Go.'

'Oh, you're angry about _this?_' she continued, pointing at Anton, who had his hand over his eyes.

'No, I'm just saying, drop the act,' Christian argued, turning and walking away from the storage room. He wanted to get back down to the show, so he could see how it was going, _check Box Five, you idiot! See if it's locked and if it's not –_

'How dare you?'

He turned around and saw Elieutte stalking after him. He rolled his eyes and kept walking. 'Go home, go back with Anton to wherever you came from –'

'So you're saying I'm in the wrong?' Elieutte snapped, walking up beside him. He glared at her. She _still _didn't get that he knew! He picked up the pace, making it to behind the stage.

'I can't believe _you_, of all people –!'

'Can you be a little quieter?' Christian asked in a low voice, ignoring the glances people were giving them but noticing that she was loud enough to be heard on-stage.

'Oh, no, no way!' Elieutte said loudly. He heard Christine talk louder on stage and he wanted to leave this place all of a sudden.

'Look, you can _leave _now, no one's keeping you here –'

'Do you mind telling me _what _happened last night?' Elieutte continued. 'I mean, as if that _ghastly woman _telling me you were together wasn't enough –'

'Oh, God, that meant _nothing_, we didn't do anything, we're friends!' Christian hissed. He heard the actors on stage talking loudly and people hissing at them to shut up. _I need to find Erik –_

'Then she goes on about you and _Erik_, whoever the hell _he _was, getting together!' Her voice had risen to a shout now and Christian heard the people on-stage stop in sudden confusion. Elieutte pushed him hard in the chest and he moved backwards.

'Look, you don't know what you're talking about,' Christian snapped, feeling his cheeks heat up as knew that Madame Giry and many others were staring at him. He glanced up at her and saw she looked determined for this to go on. He shook his head. _What?_

Elieutte pushed him again.

'Don't _do _that –!'

'Oh, stop me, why don't you?' she snapped, pushing him again. She really could push hard. And she looked _really _mad.

'Tell me about this Erik –'

'Shut up!'

'Where did you go after he left, _hm_? Didn't see you come _back!_' She was pushing him on every emphasised word. He kept walking backwards, wondering when he'd hit a wall.

He realised everyone had gotten suspiciously quiet and realised why – he could see Christine staring at him in horror and knew that Elieutte and him were standing on stage. He kept glaring at her, trying to ignore this. He could almost hear Andre and Firmin's terror at the sudden interruption.

'So, who is this masked man,' Elieutte asked, putting her hands on her hips, sounding almost dreamy.

'Take a wild guess,' Christian snapped, determined to not break eye contact. He didn't have to – her eyes widened and an incredulous look passed over her face. He realised with surprise she'd gotten it.

'The _Opera Ghost –_?'

He mentally rolled his eyes and heard Christine's intake of breath. The audience seemed a little stunned but all gasped as well.

'I know who you are, Elieutte,' he said slowly, trying to be calm and her face flushed, 'and you don't have to keep pretending. It's over, okay?'

Obviously it wasn't.

'_Okay?!'_ She looked stunned. '_Okay?!_ You cheat on my _sister_, my _little sister _for –'

'I don't think it's _cheating _if said person's been dead for a year – and it was a _long year_, let me tell you that,' Christian replied dangerously, his eyes holding fire.

'Fine, but you thought I was her! So you gladly left and did _what _afterwards?!'

'You are _paranoid _and _overprotective_!'

'Well, wouldn't you feel a _little bad, huh, Christian?!_' She was nearly screaming at him now.

'I don't know,' Christian yelled sarcastically, 'but I know I _definitely would _if say I'm flirting with another man right in front of the one you're being _paid_ to fall in love with, whilst the man you're _really _in love with watches all of what's happening!'

Elieutte's mouth hung open for a second. 'How _dare you?!'_

'It was really easy,' Christian said, sounding oddly calm, 'I assure you.'

He knew they should be moving off stage – moving off stage where no one could see them, this should be a _private conversation, _he could feel the audience, completely spellbound, _if Erik is here, if he's HERE –_

'Okay, so I'm supposed to let it slide that you're IN LOVE with MY SISTER, as everyone here keeps telling me, but you're going BEHIND 'HER' BACK with an OPERA GHOST?!' Satine's sister screamed at him.

Christian was pretty sure he heard a gasp among the audience – it sounded a lot like his mother. He ignored it, still glaring at her. Someone behind stage said, 'Knew it, pay up –'

Another one, sounded like Meg, hissed 'Shut up!'

Elieutte was glaring at him and he knew she should be. He thought about Satine and simply threw all thoughts of her away.

'I didn't love her,' Christian said.

More gasps emitted from everywhere – he struggled to hear if one sounded like Erik, but he couldn't tell. _Please be hearing this, Erik!_

Elieutte's mouth dropped open. '_What?' _she shrieked.

'I – didn't – love – her!' Christian repeated, louder this time. He was angry, hell yes he was angry. As he said the words he knew they were true. 'I was just looking for love and she came along – she was obviously excited to be "in love", as was I. I'm sorry she died before she could have had a real feeling of what it's like.'

_I'm so sorry, Satine, _he thought honestly. He didn't know if she would ever forgive him for this.

Elieutte slapped him across the face. He winced – _again, why does everyone hit me THERE?_ – and turned back to her. Everyone was paying attention to their every move, even the orchestra down in the pit.

'You didn't love her,' Elieutte said in a would-be-calm voice.

'I didn't,' Christian echoed.

'So who _do _you love?' Elieutte said, still in this voice. It was the same with Erik, only with Erik it really was much worse – it was this terrible fury behind calm words. It seemed like if she didn't act calm she'd simply rip him apart. He supposed that was probably the same case with Erik.

Just _thinking _about the bloody man made him feel suddenly wonderful, terrible, ecstatic, depressed. He realised he was going to have to say, even if it made everything worse for everyone else, because if the ghost was watching this, or listening –

'Or _is _there a love of your life?' Elieutte continued. 'You know, someone who sweeps you off your feet?' She was getting louder, close to yelling again. 'Makes you want to sing off a rooftop, tell the whole world what you're feeling even if you look like an idiot?! WELL?!!'

Christian closed his eyes. _Just say it. Come on. Your life depends on it! _He couldn't do it. _You idiot, you're running out of TIME!_

He could see Madame Giry staring at him, her face urging him to say it. He could feel everyone hanging on their every word. Christine was holding her breath, her hands covering her mouth.

'I'm in love with the Opera Ghost,' Christian said, shrugging at Elieutte. He gave an exasperated laugh, one that wasn't filled with much hope – would it even work if Erik was here? Would the ghost even _forgive him_ or just let him suffer? 'I really am.'

Elieutte's face was nothing short of sheer disbelief and someone went, 'Seriously, _pay me, _I can't believe –'

'Will you shut up?' Meg snapped.

Christian allowed himself a half-smile at that. He'd just poured out what he'd known forever but failed to accept. And it might not even matter now. 'You can go now. Okay?'

Elieutte raised her hand for a second, as if to slap him again. She lowered it after a moment, shook her head and said 'Okay. I hope you burn in hell.'

Christian didn't reply. She sniffed and turned around, sauntering off stage. He shrugged and walked off the opposite way – they'd been in the middle, _the middle_, of the stage.

But now he thought about it, that really didn't matter. It didn't matter that he'd ruined the play, he'd already ruined his life.

To his surprise he heard clapping, loud, hard clapping and realised people thought that had been part of the show. Good, he could at least explain it to his mother if she tried to find him again and succeeded...

He ignored the people staring at him, some with their mouths open (like Carlotta), others looking smug and taking a franc from someone else, some looked determined and glad he had got it out (namely Meg and her mother).

'And that was a scene from a play the Opera Populaire _might _consider doing,' he heard Christine inventing wildly on-stage and silently thanked her as the audience cheered louder. 'Um, but now back to the show!'

He heard people murmuring as he walked past ('_Did you hear what he just said?' 'The Opera Ghost? Certainly not OUR ghost?'_), some of the chorus girls looked scandalised and like their hearts were broken, footsteps indicated someone was running backstage and he heard Raoul moving up behind him and clasping a hand on his shoulder. 'Do you realise _what _you just said –?'

'Yeah, I _get it_,' Christian snapped, turning around and pushing Raoul's hand off. Raoul shrugged at him, looking concerned. He saw Madame Giry take a step towards him and even though he wouldn't have minded with Madame Giry, he just needed to get out of there. He turned and ran – he didn't need people to remind him what he had just admitted.

'_He really meant the Phantom of the Opera?'_

'_I'm so confused right now...'_

He didn't know where he was going at first until, after what felt like ages, he was standing out the front of Box Five. He stared at it. Everything depended on what happened now, right? He almost didn't want to open it because really his life _did _depend on this.

He opened the door – _it's not locked_ – and felt his heart rise in hope.

And fall as he looked inside.

There was no one there.

Christian blinked and stood there for a full minute. He couldn't believe this. Erik hadn't shown up. What he'd just said on stage had been a waste of breath. He moved into the box, looking desperately for a note, _something_, _anything _to tell him Erik had been here.

He stopped when he realised there was nothing. Erik really hadn't shown.

Christian ran a hand through his hair, trying to breathe properly. He felt stupid – he'd known it all along that Erik wouldn't bother to show up... His chest felt empty all of a sudden and then suddenly too full, overflowing with –

'I swear, those people backstage said he was coming up _here –_'

'_That boy better have a good reason for whatever the hell just happened on that stage _–'

Christian's head shot up. Oh God. The one thing he didn't need right now. Instead of closing the box door and staying in there, he decided he couldn't be in there a moment longer; he tumbled out, shutting the door behind him, breathing hard.

And realised he'd walked straight into his mother.

She stared at him for a moment, at lost for what to say. He looked back at her, calm as anything, waiting for the explosion as he stared back into the clear blue eyes he'd inherited. The explosion never came.

She wrapped her arms around him and he didn't hug her back. 'Oh, _Christian_, what just _happened out there? _We were so worried, it sounded so real, and then that _lovely_ woman told us it was from a new play that the Opera Populaire was putting on –'

Christian didn't even have the humour to roll his eyes. They felt like they wouldn't move even if he tried. He felt like a statue.

'– she's a lovely looking girl, I'm certain _you _know that, hm?' his mother giggled, letting go of him and smiling widely. She stopped at the look on his face. 'Christian, what's wrong?'

'I'll tell you what's wrong –' Christian glared at his father but it was his mother that cut the old man off.

'Imagine how surprised we were when we heard this was _your _play! It's a bit inappropriate, I don't know _where _you've come up with all this, but I suppose you're a man and certain interests appear –'

'Certain interests?' his father snapped. 'Didn't you see what just happened out there?'

'Yes, oh, are you going to be in that play if they perform it?'

'Mum,' Christian said and to him his voice seemed very final, 'that wasn't a play.'

His mother's eyes rounded. 'Hm, dear?'

'I said, that _wasn't a play,_' Christian repeated, trying to get the message through to her.

His mother laughed. 'Oh, yes, you're _in love _with a ghost, very funny, ha, ha –'

'Haven't you heard of the Phantom of the Opera, woman?!' his father broke in, glaring at his wife. Christian wished he could disappear. 'That wasn't any _act, _madame, that was _your son _telling the audience that a cancan dancer wasn't enough for him and instead he prefers murderers, _male _murderers for that matter –'

'Watch it –!'

'_My _son,' Christian's mother asked, a little offended but still playful. 'He's _your son_ too, you oldie.'

Christian rolled his eyes and let his head hang, cradling it with one hand. This was just great.

'No son of mine –'

'Tell you what; does this sound like you enough?' Christian snapped. 'Get. Out. Of my life.'

'How _dare _you?'

'_Christian!' _his mother squeaked pathetically, staring at him in disbelief. 'You can't be _serious –!'_

'If you're going to disown me, disown me already, spare me the speech,' Christian said exasperatedly, moving back the way he came, ignoring their shocked faces (or his mother's shocked face and his father's shocked/angry one) and not really caring if he never saw them again.

Then he was just moving through life, walking up a staircase that he didn't know and opening a door and suddenly he was on the roof.

It was a fairly warm night, clear, bright and full of stars. He could almost see the whole of Paris from up here. The moon looked happy for some reason he couldn't understand – the moon seemed against him most of the time. He was also oblivious to why it had a moustache.

So now what? Erik hadn't heard a single thing he'd just said. He couldn't go down there because he'd be killed upon sight. And he didn't want to ask Madame Giry to go down and talk to them.

So where did he live now? He couldn't go back to the Moulin Rouge and didn't want to. He did, however, wish to explain things to Toulouse and the others. He had to.

And besides, he almost _wanted _to stay at the opera house... except for one small problem. On second thoughts, going down to see Erik wouldn't be half-bad. At least after Erik killed him he wouldn't have to worry about anything.

He realised he was murmuring to himself, murmuring a tune to a song he just remembered and decided to half-sing.

'_Hope you don't mind_

_I hope you don't mind_

_That I put down in words..._'

He hung his head. What had he done? He thought he heard something move and didn't bother to look.

'How wonderful life is,' Christian said bitterly, bring his knees up to his chest and folding his arms across them, resting his head on his wrists and just thinking until sleep came.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty **

As the sun began to rise over Paris, a few events took place.

The night before, Christian's mother and father had left as soon as they heard their son's will never to see them again. They were sure they were not guilty of anything; they had brought him up well, look where he was, in the Opera Populaire. The only question on their minds was, really, how _did_ he get there, behaving as he was? He was obviously ungrateful to them and talking to him again was the furthest thing from their minds.

His mother was still concerned about what Christian had said before; something about him being in love with the Phantom of the Opera. Even though she couldn't believe something like that, Christian seemed almost _earnest _to convince them. She supposed he was very good at acting. Nonetheless, she wondered what this ghost looked like. Surely he wasn't a _real ghost _– that seemed nonsense.

She still could wonder, though.

At about one in the morning, Elieutte and Anton had caught a train and left Paris for somewhere else – somewhere in England, she hoped. She was glad to finally be rid of the Moulin Rouge and to have done her part for her sister. Even if it had all gone terribly.

Elieutte sighed. She had been overprotective of her younger sister, but wouldn't you if you learned the girl had spent her life selling herself to men and the one man she truly finds love with didn't love her? Was that even a reason to be overprotective?

She sighed again and rested her head on Anton's shoulder. 'So, I'm guessing you told him what happened?'

'I never knew that _that _was Christian,' Anton muttered, half-asleep.

'Well, you ruined everything, and I love you for that,' Elieutte replied back and Anton chuckled.

At around that time Christian was having a strange dream; Satine was moving steadily away from him and waving. Then the dream crumbled into darkness and he screamed in his head, waking himself. He looked around, realised he was on the roof underneath a gargoyle and shrugged, putting his head back down on his arms and forgetting the dream.

An hour later Zidler realised Satine's sister had left. He had heard the play went incredibly well and was liked by the audience; most of the women had been in tears by the end of it. Even when their husbands asked what was wrong, they simply responded with a sobbing 'That play was _excellent_.'

But he had also heard of the strange interlude around some time in the beginning, where a man and a woman had held a rather amazing argument on the stage, ending in the man confessing love to a ghost, as he'd heard, and the woman slapping him and leaving. That had been fine until he discovered it was Christian and Elieutte who had been the fighters.

Barely a minute before Zidler had found Elieutte gone, Christine had woken up and found her husband gone. Sleepily she'd walked out of her room, down a few hallways and saw him sitting on the stage. He looked over at her, smiled and said, 'Can't sleep?'

'Raoul, you idiot, where were you?' Christine scowled, crossing her arms and sitting down next to him, swinging her legs off the edge of the stage like he was.

'I couldn't sleep.'

'Well, neither can I, now you're gone.'

Raoul laughed, put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her.

'Why are you out here?' Christine asked, smiling and curling up to him. This was perfect.

'Just thinking about a few things,' Raoul said.

'Oh, really? Why?'

'I'm forgetting them.'

Christine rolled her eyes. 'I supposed wonderful people are somewhat insane.'

Raoul laughed again and held her tighter. 'Come on, let's go back to bed.'

Another few hours passed and Meg heard a knock at her door. She sighed, put her head under her pillow until there was the knock again. She rolled out of bed, angry at whoever this person was and opened the door, ready to wreak hell upon them.

Satie smiled at her and asked a few questions.

And as the sun began to rise, the other person who'd been sitting on the roof half the night as Christian slept, sometimes silent, sometimes murmuring, and at one point yelling, noticed that the writer's hair looked near golden when the morning sun hit.

And with that, Paris began to wake up.

--

Christian realised someone was shaking him awake. He ignored them and continued to sleep.

'Cwistian! Cwistian, wake up!'

'Oh, go to hell,' Christian told whoever it was. 'I'm busy ruining my life, piss off.'

He heard a snicker and moved his head, cracking open an eye so he could see who it was.

He stared up at Toulouse, Satie and the Argentinean. They were all looking triumphantly down at him and he swallowed. Okay, what did he say? Hopefully they would ask some kind of question that he could answer – on second thoughts, _no questions_.

He looked up at them helplessly. 'Um. Morning. How are you?'

Toulouse laughed and clapped Christian on the shoulder. 'You finally admitted it!'

'Admitted what?' Christian asked, frowning. And then he remembered last night; standing out on a stage and telling everyone he was in love with Erik.

'Oh. Crap.'

'He remembers,' the Argentinean shrugged.

'What the _hell _did I do?' Christian said, standing up and nearly falling over again – he'd lost all feeling in his legs. Holding onto a gargoyle and panicking at the same time proved easy. 'Was I _drunk _last night?'

'No, why? Isn't it true what you said?' asked Satie, slyly.

'Well,' Christian said awkwardly. Out of pure habit, he blushed. 'Yeah, um. Yeah.'

'You finally admitted to the lovesickness!' the Argentinean roared, holding his hands above his head in a kind of victory cry.

'Wait, _that's _what this is all about?' Christian asked. He felt pins and needles all through his legs – it really hurt, but he couldn't care less. 'You mean, you don't care about what you saw. The other night,' he added, a little self-consciously.

'Well, we _did _think it was a girl,' Toulouse admitted.

'Hold on,' Christian said, appalled, 'you've expected this _entire time –_'

'Lovesickness, Christian,' said Satie, rolling his eyes. 'What did you _think _we meant?'

'I thought you were joking!'

'No joke,' the Argentinean confirmed, his brows drawing together.

'So this _entire time_, you knew I was in love with someone else.'

'We told you,' Satine said.

'Many times,' Toulouse agreed. 'You're so _stubborn._'

Christian thought about it – he really was stubborn. 'Yeah, but –'

'No buts,' Toulouse said, rolling his eyes.

'Well, aren't you –?'

'Don't want to hear it,' Satie shrugged.

'I mean, aren't you a little – well, _confused_?' Christian asked before one of them could cut in. 'I mean, you saw me –'

'Kissing the Opera Ghost,' Toulouse said, a little excitedly. 'When you fall, you fall _hard_!'

'Very handsome man, good catch,' the Argentinean commented, as if they were talking about race horses.

'I can't believe I'm talking about this,' Christian said, bewildered. 'And anyway, I screwed everything up; the day you came, Toulouse, I thought I _really _– well, let's just – oh, God, I left, okay? I left the Opera Populaire, ghost and all, for someone who made me feel sick.'

'That was stupid,' the Argentinean agreed, nodding.

'You're not helping,' Christian said, narrowing his eyes. 'Anyway, he hates me, so I'm really in trouble here.'

'Well, fall in love again,' Toulouse said, waving his hands.

Christian laughed as he thought of when they'd first kissed. 'That was a death trap, no thanks!' Then he remembered standing in the underground cave for the first time, feeling awkward as Erik had calmly ripped material off his shirt to stop the bleeding on his head. And that chest memory was going to haunt him _forever_.

'Go and talk to him,' Satie offered.

'He'll kill me,' Christian said flatly.

'Oh, I'm sure he'll be mad, but after what you did last night –' Toulouse began grandly, a look of being swept away crossing his face –

'No, I mean, he'll _really _kill me,' Christian interrupted, feeling the moment die. He could hear the crickets chirping in his head as everyone went silent. He also felt the unbelievable depression settle as it all sunk in. And suddenly, in the midst of all this, he realised his legs were supporting him again and he let go of the gargoyle.

A horrible thought struck him; the audience had thought it was a play. That was all good, yes, _the audience_, who he'd never have to see again. The _opera staff_, however –

Would the managers throw him out? Would people laugh at him for what he had done? Did he really care?

He found he didn't – much. It was only really if Erik had heard. And, according to the empty box, he really hadn't. So what a waste of time.

And still he was thinking that maybe there was a _chance_, maybe Erik had been there, had heard it. Maybe. He found his mind leading that fantasy on until he decided he should probably come back down to earth before the silence really got to him.

'I think I should go find out how I changed my life,' Christian said, giving them all a grin. They grinned back.

'Good luck,' Satie wished him, saluting.

Christian walked to the roof door and Toulouse added, 'If you _do_, perchance, lose everything, you can came and stay with us?'

Christian forced himself to smile. 'Thanks for the offer.'

'What kind of people do you fall in love with?' the Argentinean muttered, rolling his eyes.

Christian smirked. 'You have _no _idea.'

--

He noticed the glances; once again, he was the centre of attention. He sighed, staring hard at the ground as he walked by everyone.

Christian wasn't too sure on what he would do. He could just go up to his room and think for about three hours until he realised he was forever screwed. Or he could find Christine – he didn't really want to hear her exclamations, though – Meg – he didn't want to bother her – Raoul – no – Madame Giry.

He realised someone had put a hand on his shoulder and was steering him through the dark stages. He looked up and smiled at Madame Giry's tired face.

'You _do _realise what you just did, monsieur?' Madame Giry said, shaking her head and crossing her arms.

Christian put a hand over his eyes. 'Yes. Don't remind me.'

'Well, I thought it was wonderful how much it took to make you realise you were in love with Erik. You can be stubborn when you want to be.'

'Still _am _in love with Erik,' Christian corrected bitterly. 'Do you think he'd murder me if I went down there?'

'I think confronting him is probably the best idea,' Madame Giry said seriously.

Christian looked up and stared at her. '_What? _He'll kill me!'

'Well, would you rather wait for him to find you, or be sure of when you're going to die?' Madame Giry smirked.

'You're not serious,' Christian said, shaking his head.

'I'm _dead _serious. Go and talk to him.'

'Okay, this is _Erik _we're talking about.'

'Yes.'

'Yes. And he has a habit of killing people he really hates.'

'This is possibly true.'

'Okay. And right now, I'm at the top of that list. So my chances are _nil_.'

'He's _your_ true love, monsieur,' Madame Giry said, with a flourish, 'and you asked for trouble.' With that, she winked and walked away, leaving Christian standing in a hallway, completely confused.

He really couldn't go down there. As much as he needed to talk to Erik. He put his head in his hands. Great, he'd embarrassed the hell out of himself for no good reason; sure, everyone _else _knew, but the one person who was supposed to hadn't appeared.

Erik had good reason, though, he found himself realising. He really hadn't made too many wise decisions. Really stupid ones, actually. But they'd all seemed so rational at the time and he never, _never _expected this to happen.

He needed to talk to someone else.

--

Christine hugged the writer tightly. 'Oh, God, Christian, I'm so _sorry –_'

'It's fine,' Christian said warmly, mentally ticking off all the things he'd though Christine should apologise for. 'Don't beat yourself up over it.'

'Well done on last night,' Meg said, hugging him when Christine let go. 'It takes some real effort to do _that_. I know Robert wouldn't go up on stage and talk about me that way.'

'I didn't really say anything about him,' Christian said. He felt like suddenly everyone knew his private life and had accepted it well before he had. And he had only realised what he was saying when he was saying it.

'Any ideas?' Meg asked, crossing her arms as she pulled back.

'Well. Not really.' He looked away at the appalled looks they were giving him. 'Oh, come on –'

'_Christian_,' Christine snapped, 'you just confessed _undying love _to this man –'

'I did _not_,' the writer interjected, but it was lost.

'And you're telling me you haven't spoken to him?' Christine finished, crossing her arms. Meg and her looked very mad.

'Well, if I had, would I be here?' Christian remarked.

'Touché,' said Christine, narrowing her eyes, showing that he really hadn't won at all.

'Well, maybe he's looking for you,' Meg said.

Christian snorted. 'Erik usually finds me without hesitation.'

'Well, we could leave, because it'd be a little awkward perhaps to run out, grab you while you're standing here with two girls and go down to under the opera house,' Meg suggested.

Christian forced his mind not to lead that scenario on and said, 'I doubt it. I don't think he was there last night.'

Both girls stared at him.

'What gives you _that _idea?' Christine asked.

'I checked his box, he wasn't there,' Christian shrugged.

'Christian,' said Meg slowly, 'did he, or did he not watch the entire of Spectacular, Spectacular from the rafters?'

Christian didn't know who had told her that one but he nodded nonetheless.

'Okay,' said Meg, 'so there's a large chance he heard it.'

'Well, even if he _did_, what am I supposed to do? Go down and say, "Hi, sorry I left here for a girl I didn't even like, can we start up again?" _No_, Meg,' he added when he saw she was going to say 'yes'.

'Well, I think you should,' Christine said haughtily.

'Oh, please,' Christian said, putting a hand over his eyes. '_Why?_'

'Because what else can you do?' the soprano asked, sounding like she'd won. Christian frowned when he realised she had.

**--**

**Shortish chapter, I'm sad! I don't want this story to end! Eeep, how attached people get... ;)**

**Reviews please with various foods that people like? :D hope you enjoyed!**


	31. Chapter 31

**Holy gosh, here it is! **

**Chapter Thirty-One**

Christian felt like his life wasn't really his own anymore. Basically everyone in the Opera Populaire knew exactly what was happening with him; it was a lot to go through in a very short time, in his opinion. He'd only completely realised what he'd known for a long time last night – and the staff seemed to accept this quite easily where as he was still having a field day with the fact he'd ruined everything.

So there he was, lying on the bed he hadn't seen for at least five days, staring up at the ceiling, thinking. Firmin and Andre had not approached him yet, and he was glad – he wondered whether they simply didn't care about it (seemed unlikely) or whether they thought Erik would come after them if they threw Christian out (bingo).

Madame Giry had told him to go down there. Was there really anything else he could do?

At least it would be _trying _to do something instead of lying on a bed for three hours, trying to think of how he could get it through to Erik that he was in love with him. Okay, that seemed really pathetic now he thought about it...

But what he'd done last night – why couldn't Erik have just been there? It could have been easy, he probably would've been lying on the ghost's bed instead of his own, contemplating quite possibly the managers reaction but it just _wouldn't matter _because Erik would know.

He put his hand over his eyes. Okay, _now _this all sounded pathetic. He stood up, walked over to the mirror and opened it. If he was going to sit around and mope about it, well... then he was... he'd started that sentence wrong in his head. He rolled his eyes, wondering why people have such weird moments like these and stepped through the mirror-door, closing it behind him.

It was just as he remembered – dark and cold. And he didn't know where he was going. Great, that would be fun. He'd run down here before when he was angry at Erik, when he'd figured out the ghost had murdered people; and yet he hadn't noticed where he was going. Perhaps it was easier than he thought.

_This is stupid, _some part of his mind told him as he trudged down the passage. He firmly ignored it as it pressed some more. _You're going to get yourself KILLED, you idiot. He's not going to listen! _

_I'm thinking, give me a minute._

_There's nothing to THINK about, you're going to die. Simple as that._

_Am I really that negative? _Christian mused. For some reason, the small rational part of his mind shut up. He felt a little dream-like as he walked down the passages. His heart was beating like crazy and he felt calm. He waited for the panic to rise and had a strong feeling it wouldn't until he actually faced the ghost.

_He's not a ghost, he's a man. You know that. _

He really had no idea where he was going. There were no openings in the passage, ways that would tell him to follow their corridors, just this long stretch that he seemed rather content with going on. It all was so _strange_.

He felt too calm. This was wrong. _Should _he feel this calm? Did people feel like this before they died?

_And there's the panic, _he thought, rolling his eyes. His heart was pounding. The funny feeling in his chest began again, it felt like it would burst from the energy it was containing.

He didn't know how long he walked. He kept his mind steady, not thinking about what he could say to Erik when he got there; nothing came to mind. He'd just have to improvise, the procrastinator! He smiled a little. The darkness was easier to see in now. He heard a squeak on the floor and moved towards the wall as he heard the rat scurry past. He hated rats.

_Okay, how did it end up that a penniless writer from England came to be wandering down a long tunnel to try and tell a ghost, who basically wants to kill him now, that he wants to bury the hatchet? Why? Oh, because he's finally realised what he's done was a stupid idea and just wants everything to be back to normal._

He had no real hope. But there was always a chance the Opera Ghost would let him live.

The writer stopped suddenly. He was staring at the mirror. Okay, much easier than he thought.

He suddenly hoped that the ghost wouldn't be in there, that he'd be up watching the actors rehearsing again for the show again tonight, but he wouldn't because if he didn't bother to go when it opened he wouldn't care in the slightest, would he?

Christian pushed everything from his mind and slid the mirror open.

It was worse than he expected; everything flooded back and he held his breath.

The room was lit by the candles and there was still the odd debris scattered on the stone floor. Despite the broken glass and scattered pages, which seemed to be written by him, this place held a romantic gothic effect, in some odd kind of way that he would never understand.

Erik glanced over at him. If his home was slightly scattered, it certainly didn't affect how he pulled off looking unbelievably good. He was sitting at the organ, but upon hearing the mirror open he'd turned so he could fully face the writer. Even the way he was _sitting _just told you about whom he was; his elbows were resting on his knees and his hands were hanging over them, not in the same awkward way Christian pulled it off, but in a charming movement that just seemed to flow with confidence. He looked nonchalant except for the one eyebrow raised, questioning why Christian was here. Christian wished that he wasn't focusing on the fact he could see some of the ghost's chest thanks to the fairly open shirt Erik was wearing. He tried concentrating on his eyes but that didn't help. He looked at the ground and tried to think of something to say but it really was hard to think.

_Calm down_, he told himself. He really should have thought ahead, thought of something to say, _damn it, Christian, why didn't you?_

'Yes?' Erik asked, in that voice people use when in means someone is treading a thin line.

He looked back up at the ghost, who'd moved into standing. _Okay, you have about three minutes, go._ 'Um, I was... just wondering...' He couldn't concentrate with Erik staring at him like that. He rolled his eyes and thought _get it over with_. 'Where you there last night?'

'Where?' asked Erik coolly, moving towards him. Christian forced himself not to step back. _Time's running out, say it!_

Instead, he calmly pointed upwards. He could play this game too. 'There.'

Erik looked at the roof then back at Christian, frowning. 'Ceiling?'

Christian groaned inwardly. Erik knew exactly what he meant but wasn't going to let him get away with it. _You're about to kill me, really, give me a break!_

Erik had gotten rather close; they were about a foot away from each other. _Oh, God, oh, God, oh God –_

Christian glared up into Erik's green eyes and the ghost tilted his head, waiting for an answer. He ignored the pounding in his ears and in his chest. 'The performance.'

'Did I attend?' Erik sounded amused, in his own cruel way. _Oh, shut up_.

'Yes,' Christian ground out.

'No,' Erik answered, not breaking the eye contact. Christian felt his heart sink and looked down. 'Shit,' he muttered then looked back up. 'Okay, well, um...'

Erik smirked. 'Time's running out.'

Okay, so he'd be dead in a minute. Erik, though smirking, had that look in his eye that meant he wasn't lying. _Just say it, I love you, I love you, I – love – you, not hard, is it?!_

Christian ignored it and let another urge take over, one that had hit him as soon as he walked in and saw the ghost; he found himself stepping forwards, resting his hands on Erik's shoulders and pressing his lips against the ghost's.

Even as he was doing it, his thoughts had been _At least it's a great last memory_ and then he waited for Erik to push him off and proceed to take him out of this world, however it would go.

So he was surprised when Erik responded by tilting his head and deepening the kiss. Christian ignored the small noise of approval that came out of his mouth at the ghost's actions; instead, he wrapped his arms around Erik's neck as he felt the ghost's hands slowly moving up his back, feeling his heart sing at the move.

Okay, really, this didn't seem right. Erik was about to kill him, he was certain of that and he was quite sure that you didn't make out with people before you did that. _Lucky you, _his mind made out for him and he gave a silent _Amen_. But really, the ghost didn't seem in any hurry to kill him (_like he was complaining_). And he didn't really have to worry about it _now_, did he? He snaked a hand into Erik's hair, letting his mind go blank and be filled with nothing but the ghost.

It was only when Erik hand's began sliding _down_ to the backs of his thighs and the ghost had hoisted him into a sitting position onto a table he'd known to previously hold liquordid he realise how long this had been going on. He pulled back, staring up at Erik in a mixture of surprise and embarrassment. He waited for Erik to say something, to tell him why he'd done that (_If _the ghost was as generous as that – Christian wouldn't have complained if he hadn't). He could hear his heart thumping in panic as he stood there, slowly moving his hands off the ghost.

He certainly didn't expect Erik to laugh at his expression – well, he had, but he'd expected that kind of maniacal laugh that opera house staff told him was associated with the ghost, not that laugh Christian had heard quite regularly while being around the ghost.

Erik took this opportunity to smirk again, obviously amused at the writer's expression still. Christian knew his heart stopped when Erik leaned down to his ear and whispered, 'I heard everything you said last night, you idiot.'

Christian felt his jaw drop. He resisted the urge to punch Erik and yell 'Who are you calling _idiot?!_' but the truth was he'd never liked being called an idiot so much.

He realised he was breathing again and suddenly he just started talking, 'I can't believe you – I mean –'

'You can't believe _me?_' Erik asked, arching an eyebrow; still amused.

'_Yes _you – why'd you act like you didn't go?'

'Because I was waiting to see if you'd say you were in love with me again?' Erik offered, shrugging; Christian knew the ghost was only doing that to humour him and that it had been his adamant reason all along. Erik grinned at him and Christian couldn't help but start up again.

'Okay, so I don't even care about that, but _why _are you just letting me come back? After all I did?'

'Were you hoping I'd still hate you?' Erik asked charmingly.

'No, I'm just surprised. _Anyone _would still hate me. Oh, God, Erik, I'm so sorry, I'm an idiot, bastard, whatever you want to call me –'

'Does this have a climax?' Erik interrupted. Christian glared at him. 'I'm trying to apologise here. Oh, and one question; was it _really necessary _to kiss me in front of Toulouse?'

Erik snorted. 'Just be glad I didn't do it in front of everyone else.'

'I doubt you could have,' Christian argued, starting to grin. 'How much are you willing to bet?'

'The managers did just pay me,' Erik replied, keeping a straight face. He smirked to himself as he ran his fingers through Christian's hair and watched it stay untidy.

'Yeah, I know,' the writer said, 'and you'd probably win on that one.'

'I'm surprised you're willing to admit it,' Erik said sarcastically. 'After all, all it took was one night of complete disaster for you to say that you –'

He stopped when the writer turned his piercing blue eyes on him. 'Did you _plan _for me to do this?'

Erik smiled, placing a chaste kiss on the writer's forehead. Christian really was unbelievable. 'Honestly, no. I was quite prepared to go on hating you.'

'Oh,' Christian said, sounding awkward. Then he took on a much sterner tone. 'Huh. Well, anyway, about the night before last –'

Erik grinned and cut Christian off by claiming the writer's lips with his own. Christian seemingly forgot about everything as Erik moved them to the bed, refusing to part from the writer at all.

He let himself fall onto it, taking Christian with him. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as Christian opened his eyes and said, 'Traitor.'

Erik chuckled. He continued to smile at the writer; he didn't think he could stop even if he wanted to. Christian moved a hand out and placed it on the side of the ghost's face. Erik closed his eyes, revelling in the touch. 'I didn't sleep with Satine,' he admitted, keeping his eyes closed.

Christian stared back at him, eyes suddenly focusing. 'Wait, _what?_'

Erik opened his eyes, looking suddenly irritable. 'I didn't sleep with her.'

'Wait. So did you – with Elieutte?'

Erik stared at him. 'No.'

'But... well, why'd you –?'

'She was flirtatious and I thought it would get to you,' Erik said, in that way that meant he'd really just decided it within a second.

'Oh,' Christian said, moving his hand down to Erik's chest then his stomach, tracing the muscles. He shivered. Those green eyes continued to stare at him. 'Did you?'

'No,' Christian said truthfully, thanking God he hadn't.

'Good,' Erik said after a moment. _And there's the possessiveness, _Christian thought, smiling. The ghost gave a crooked smile back and Christian just couldn't believe it. 'Then why'd you forgive me?'

Erik smirked. 'I think after seeing you on a stage trying to calm down Satine's sister might have had something to do with it.'

Christian blushed – even more familiar. 'Right. And with what I said?'

'And with what you said,' Erik repeated smoothly. Christian nodded and made to sit up –

And ended up with the ghost pinning him down again, smirking. Christian felt his heart beat hard and remembered, like most people do at times like these, something he did not want to remember, the dream he'd at the Moulin Rouge. His mouth went dry and it hurt to swallow. Erik was still smirking down at him. Christian offered a shaky laugh. 'I was just going to sit up.'

Erik cocked his head in an 'Is that so?' kind of way that meant he wasn't going to let Christian up. _Do not think about that dream, okay?_

Like that would stop his traitorous mind. He was already wondering if his hands were tied yet. 'I missed you,' was what came out of his mouth.

The ghost rolled his eyes. 'Right, do you mind telling me whose fault is that?'

'I know,' Christian said, 'but I mean – everyone kept telling me I looked really sick and I didn't eat really. It was subconscious, but –'

'I didn't move for about two days,' Erik shrugged.

'Oh, God,' Christian said, feeling the guilt rush through him, 'Erik, I am so _sorry _–'

'I paid you back, didn't I?' Erik smirked, raising an eyebrow. Christian looked a little relieved and the ghost asked innocently, 'Did you miss me _that much? _You're not even going to argue?' He leaned down and kissed down Christian's neck.

'Hey, I had dreams about you,' Christian said, his voice a little high. He cleared his throat. Hell, why couldn't he _keep anything _from the ghost as soon as Erik started kissing him. Well, any time, in fact.

Erik pulled up, a few inches away from his face. 'What kind of dreams?' he asked, grinning charmingly. Christian felt his stomach move and looked at the ceiling, trying to think how he could answer this.

Erik understood though; he smirked again. Then Christian looked back at him in such a way that Erik stopped smirking, a little surprised; Christian was thinking about something to do with him, thinking obviously hard about whatever it was.

Slowly – ever so slowly – he saw the writer's hand move up, up towards the right side of his face; towards the mask. The thing that had gotten him into this in the first place.

Wordlessly, Christian traced it with his fingertips. The porcelain was cold and every few seconds he'd glance at Erik, waiting for the ghost to object strongly, turn his head away and maybe glare at the lake while Christian complained. But Erik didn't, he simply kept his eyes locked on the writer's, waiting. He seemed calm but Christian saw the flex of muscles in his neck which meant he swallowed fairly hard.

'If you don't want me too, I won't,' Christian said softly.

He waited for Erik to scoff 'Thank _God_' or something like that. But instead he said nothing, just waited and Christian had a feeling now Erik was just letting him make the choice. He wondered what was under the mask, feeling tingles of anticipation run through him.

Christian smiled. 'Come what may, right?'

Erik continued to stare, a little blankly. Christian wondered what battles could be going on inside his head and let his fingers get some hold on the side of the mask, beginning to take it away. He saw the ghost's hand twitch and noted what control Erik was using.

Erik closed his eyes. He didn't want to see this. He didn't want to see Christian's expression as he realised what a monster he really was, not after this. He felt the mask leave his face and waited, ready to hear some hollow noise of disgust but definitely not ready to accept it.

No sound came.

Erik couldn't resist; he opened his eyes and looked down at the writer, who was looking up at him and placing the mask down without looking at it. He kept his eyes locked on Erik, who looked stonily back at him, daring him to say something about how hideous he was; why did he do this?

'You,' Christian said, suddenly trying not to laugh, 'are so _overly_ dramatic.'

'_What?!_' Erik asked, completely startled, dumbfounded, you name it, and Christian moved up, taking advantage of the ghost in a moment like this, kissing him rather suggestively. Erik basically won that battle as Christian felt hands moving his shirt up to expose his flat stomach.

He pulled back, letting his head fall down on the pillow.

'You're not getting rid of me that easily,' Erik promised, grinning predatorily and Christian felt his stomach flip and his breathing increase. He'd already been feeling a little dizzy.

'I love you,' Christian said, swallowing, hearing his heart beat frantically.

Erik stared at him in what looked like bewilderment. Christian wondered if this was the first time in his life anyone had said that to him.

Then Erik smiled. 'I love you too.' He blinked; foreign words in his mouth. They felt great though – scratch great, amazing.

Christian moved to kiss Erik again when the ghost suddenly pushed him back down. The writer looked a little startled then a little nervous at Erik's smooth expression. 'Um. Planning on letting me up?' Christian asked.

Erik's smirk broadened as he continued to unbutton Christian's shirt.

'What?' Christian asked, warningly. 'You know something.'

'Oh, nothing,' Erik said, looking seriously down at Christian as if scandalised the writer would think something like that. 'I just remember something along the lines of twenty-four hours.'

Christian stared at him for a second before saying hoarsely, 'You bastard, you _did _plan all this, didn't you?'

'I didn't, monsieur,' Erik replied charmingly, grinning down at Christian's expression. 'But even if you _were _still at the Moulin Rouge, I can _assure you_, I would've still come for them.'

--

**There's still more!**

**Please review and I hope you enjoyed! **


	32. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Christian couldn't help but smirk.

The last week had been fairly eventful. Ever since he'd had that fateful meeting with Erik after the performance, things had been going a lot better.

A _lot _better.

Of course, no matter how hard you try, after you're gone for four days and you'd announced you were in love with the Phantom of the Opera the night before you disappear, saying 'I don't remember' just doesn't cut it anymore; Meg and Christine had taken bets whether he was dead or whether Erik had just gone over the twenty-four hour limits, Madame Giry had simply given him a small knowing smile that hadn't gotten on his nerves and the rest of the staff had asked where he had been for _four days, _what could he have been doing for _four days? _They're faces showed other questions; would the ghost be mad at them if they talked about the writer, ever took bets on him again? He'd just shrugged their answers away until he realised what a point of power he was in. Okay, so it was embarrassing for the staff to know who he was in a relationship with, but it had its advantages.

Such as the managers.

Andre and Firmin had been quite close to having a mental breakdown when they finally talked to him.

'So,' said Firmin, pulling his collar away from his neck, 'did you hear that _Moulin Rouge _was a great success?'

'Yeah, I did,' Christian said, wondering if he should be amused at the fact Firmin was sweating. Both of them looked terrified to say anything, in case one little word came out wrong and they'd have to worry about the Ghost. He didn't think Erik would even bother but that didn't mean he had to tell them for a while.

'Well, that's – wonderful, isn't it?' said Andre, nodding.

'Guess it is,' Christian said, 'so, does this, um, have a point?'

The managers connected eyes then smiled rather fakely at him. 'Yes,' said Firmin, 'we'd like you to stay at the Opera Populaire.'

'Why wouldn't I?' Christian asked, sounding confused, but inside he knew he was really having too much fun with this. Their expressions were priceless.

Andre laughed loudly but just a moment too late. 'HA, that is funny, why on earth _would _you leave? Priceless...'

Firmin agreed, nodding. 'Yes. Stay as long as you want.'

Christian grinned professionally. 'As you wish.'

Then there had been the chorus girls. He'd be sitting down one minute and the next minute there would be a seventeen-year-old girl by his shoulder and then about a dozen more, asking bluntly if the ghost was handsome.

'I beg your pardon?' Christian said, feeling awkward again all of sudden. He was not discussing this.

'Well, _you're _handsome, so we're wondering. People say he's deformed,' said one girl, tossing her black hair back as she crossed her arms. She was a tiny little thing, dark hair, dark eyes, pink lips, white face.

'Just tell us what he looks like,' begged another. He saw the mousy haired girl smiling at him, as if she was saying _Well done. _He winked at her then looked back at the dark-haired girl. 'Use your imagination.'

'About the deformity?' she asked, wrinkling her nose.

'You know, that's a little rude,' Christian said irritably and she shut her mouth.

'One thing about him?' asked a redheaded girl, who reminded him oddly of Satine and Elieutte.

'He haunts an opera house and wears a mask, there, that's two,' Christian recited, rolling his eyes and he heard the mousy haired girl stifle a giggle. The other girls glared at him and he stood up, making to walk away.

'One thing?' he heard the mousy haired girl's voice as the other girls started to gossip. He blinked, turned around and smiled at her. She blushed. 'I won't ask anything else.'

The other girls held their breath, eyes darting from the girl to Christian, wondering what could happen in the next thirty seconds.

To their surprise, the writer grinned. 'Green eyes,' he said then disappeared.

--

But four days _was _a long time. Christine and Meg had cornered him later and forced him to tell them.

'_Why _were you down there for so long?' Christine asked, crossing her arms.

'Oh, come on,' Christian began, rolling his eyes –

'Yes, I believe twenty four hours is _one _day, not _four_,' Meg teased.

'Get a life, both of you,' Christian replied, trying to push past them; they looked at each other, nodded, and Meg reached out, pulling his shirt collar down –

'Hey!' Christian snapped, taking a step back, hastily moving his collar around before anyone else saw the fading bruises – bruises that looked strangely like bite marks – that trailed down his shoulder – and ranged randomly from his torso to his hips.

'So, good time?' asked Christine, smirking.

'Any rope burn?' added Meg, covering her mouth with her hands.

'This conversation is over,' Christian snapped, walking past the two girls, whose giggles followed him down the hall. He heard footsteps after him, steps he recognised too quickly, and he whipped around, glaring.

'Raoul, I swear to God, if you even _try _to tell me we're "back on" I'll –'

'I'd like to apologise,' Raoul said hesitantly. Christian shut his mouth and stared at the Vicomte.

'Uh, that's great,' he said after a moment. 'Too bad I don't care anymore.'

'Well, I'd still like you to know,' Raoul insisted. 'And I was – a fool for not seeing what was right under my nose.'

'That I hated you?' Christian offered.

'Christine,' Raoul said flatly, narrowing his eyes.

'Christine! Right... huh.'

Raoul nodded, sticking out his hand. 'But it won't happen again. I mean it. I guess I'd like us to be friends,' he said, obviously expecting Christian to shake it.

He couldn't bring himself to, though. 'Give me another week,' Christian said, not unkindly. He gave the patron an apologetic look as he turned back in the direction he was going, not bothering to look back and see the expression Raoul de Chagny held.

As he'd walked past the storage room, an album of memories flicked pages in his head.

'_Are you planning on getting up?' _

_Erik always sounded so amused at times like this. Christian didn't open his eyes, ignoring the ghost._

'_I don't believe it – you're mad at me. For something _you _made the deal for.'_

'_I'm not mad at you,' Christian said honestly; it was simply his tone that made it sound like he was lying. He cracked open an eye as Erik stared at him, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised. He'd taken to wearing the mask just out of preference; he'd also not bothered to put on a shirt this morning. Christian knew that shouldn't thrill him so much anymore but it did; he felt his heart leap._

_Erik's eyebrows (or the one he could see) went up and down, in an 'I'm sure' gesture._

'_All right, so I'm a little annoyed –'_

'_Annoyed?'_

'_I don't think I can _move_, so yes, I'm annoyed.' Christian glared at him. Erik smirked. 'Your idea, monsieur –'_

'_Just because it was my idea doesn't mean I knew exactly how it was going to go,' Christian replied, rolling his eyes and moving one hand behind his head – he winced – _it hurt.

_Erik moved onto the bed, grinning down at the writer; Christian kept up the glare and Erik rolled his eyes. 'Don't be such a –_'

'_I can't move,' Christian reminded him and Erik couldn't help but look triumphant. Christian rolled his eyes. 'Look, go haunt an opera house, or something –'_

'_Might I just remind you,' Erik interrupted, turning his back on the writer so Christian could see the various fingernail scrapes on the skin, mixed with the scars. Christian felt himself blushing and he couldn't help it; he smiled at Erik's expression, a mixture of disbelief and amusement at the writer's ignorance. 'Can't move,' he reminded Erik, gesturing to the marks littering his chest and shoulders. Erik didn't have the grace to look embarrassed; he simply smirked, leaning over Christian and pressing their lips together. Christian noticed that Erik was tracing a path with his fingers down the writer's bare chest, stopping teasingly at the waistband of his trousers._

_Christian broke off the kiss, glaring at Erik. 'If you even _try _–'_

_Erik ignored him and instead moved on to his earlobe._

'_Nope, get off,' Christian said, pushing Erik's hand away – the ghost simply moved it down to his thigh._

'_I'm serious, Erik,' Christian said in a voice that meant he was obviously not. He tried to sit up, winced and settled for pushing the ghost off him entirely. Erik smirked at him._

'_You went over the twenty-four hour limit, you've lost all privileges,' Christian told him, smirking back just as triumphantly; Erik's jaw dropped open. _

'_What?!'_

_Christian laughed and said, 'You don't know how good this feels.'_

'_You're not serious –'_

'_I'm perfectly serious –'_

--

Christian still couldn't believe how lucky he was, even after a week of realising it was all back to way it was before.

Only it was better than before, even if that seemed impossible. He typed a few more words on his typewriter and smiled as he remembered another incident that had happened only a day ago...

As soon as the ghost had walked in, Christian had known something was up. He was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, in front of the typewriter. Erik glanced at it questioningly and blinked at Christian; he remembered leaving to check how the Opera Populaire was being run this morning and frankly, the Underwood typewriter had not been there. He smirked as Christian gave him a suspicious look and walked into the bedroom, looking smug and taking off his jacket.

'What did you do?' Christian asked, not moving from his spot on the floor but watching the doorway Erik had just disappeared through.

'What makes you think I did something?' Erik replied innocently from the other room. Christian rolled his eyes and continued writing. 'Forget it, I don't want to know,' he called back tiredly. He saw Erik move back into his line of vision, smiling down at him, interested. His heart pounded at that expression. 'What are you writing?'

Christian glanced up at him, still looking stern, hoping his eyes weren't giving him away. Wordlessly he looked back down at the typewriter and wrote a few more words to finish the sentence.

Erik stopped smiling, not noticing Christian's jest. Nonetheless, the writer felt bad for stopping that rare, cute – yes, he called it cute, big deal – smile. He continued typing, pretending he hadn't noticed that Erik was now frowning slightly.

'What?' asked the ghost.

'Nothing,' said Christian, still typing. 'Just curious.'

'About what?' Erik asked, refusing to cross his arms and glare at Christian like a child would – he could picture himself in a cage now, people throwing money at him while his master beat him, great. Nonetheless, it was amusing to think of Christian as a teenager.

The writer looked up at him again, interested. 'What were you looking so smug about when you walked in?'

Erik kept a straight face and shrugged, moving down to Christian's level. 'I wasn't looking smug.'

Christian rolled his eyes at the ghost. 'We've been through this, you aren't good at being innocent –'

'If you spent less time contemplating that, you would have noticed I'm already halfway down the page,' Erik interrupted smoothly and Christian moved in front of the typewriter, glaring at the ghost, who chuckled and raised his hands. 'Okay, so I haven't read anything... when am I allowed to?'

'When it's done,' Christian said firmly.

'And how long will that be?' Erik asked, a glint coming into his eyes that told Christian that within a few moments, Erik would be able to get anything out of him, with the cunning use of charm and his _waaay_ too talented hands. Christian changed the subject.

'So, really, about when you walked in – _why _the smirk?' he asked sternly, crossing his arms.

Erik shrugged again, standing up. 'I simply sent the managers a notice.'

Christian stared at him, not understanding. 'About...'

Erik let his smirk shine through. 'Us.'

Christian stared at him for a second before lunging up and forward, tackling Erik to the ground. 'You _bastard _–!'

'They already knew,' Erik said, as calmly as one can whilst trying to stop someone else from punching them; Christian knew Erik could easily overpower him and all he really had was the element of surprise but it didn't matter all of a sudden. 'What the hell is wrong with you?! What did you send them?!'

Erik was now trying not to laugh as he held Christian's wrists in an attempt; the younger man glared at him. 'Not to ask questions if you're gone for long periods of time.'

Christian broke a hand free and managed to get a fairly hard hit on the ghost's chest; Erik rolled his eyes and grabbed Christian's hand again.

'They weren't asking anything,' Christian said through gritted teeth.

'And that would last forever?' Erik replied and the writer knew he had a point. Nonetheless, he was still embarrassed.

He slowly reduced the strength in his hands and Erik let his right hand go, keeping the left in firm grasp. 'Better?' the ghost asked, obviously amused at the writer's reaction.

Christian glared at him. 'No.'

Erik chuckled and moved a few unruly strands of hair off Christian's face, even though the writer knew that was useless. But the ghost obviously didn't care; he seemed to love Christian's always somewhat untidy style. 'Am I still banned from "privileges"?' Erik mocked, moving Christian's hand up to his face and trailing kisses down his wrist.

Christian punched Erik in the stomach, not very hard but enough to make Erik realise he was not off the hook and to let go of his wrist. Christian moved off the ghost and Erik got to his feet within a few seconds. 'Are you _really _angry?' Erik asked, taking hold of Christian's shoulders and spinning the writer back to face him. He saw Christian was trying not laugh and his eyes narrowed momentarily. Then he smirked wickedly.

'Hey,' Christian said, stopping the laughter immediately at that look. 'Look, sorry if I hurt you. And you're right about the managers anyway, I was just –' He cut off when suddenly Erik was holding him, bridal style.

'Kidding?' Erik finished and Christian realised how close they were to the lake.

'Erik, _don't _even think about it –'

The ghost smirked and let go.

--

Christian grinned as he continued typing. After Erik had dropped him in the lake, privileges were back on. He laughed when he thought of how just saying that Erik had taken him seriously.

'What?' Erik asked, looking up at the sound of Christian's laugh.

Christian shook his head and remembered Erik was in the bedroom and couldn't see him. When Christian had come down the ghost had been asleep. Christian had filed that image of the ghost looking so relaxed into his brain. 'Just thinking about a certain someone who threw me into a lake,' he said loudly and Erik grinned, lifting himself up on his elbows as he listened to the sounds the typewriter made. He'd woken up about ten minutes ago to those sounds.

'Right,' Erik called, moving off the bed and out of the room, so he could see Christian. He'd stopped typing momentarily and was staring at a toy monkey with cymbals which had somehow ended up around the floor – it wasn't damaged, it obviously was thought of as a pretty high object to the ghost. As the writer watched, it clacked its tiny cymbals together and a slow music-box sounding tune came out of it.

He looked up at Erik, who sat down behind him, wrapping his arms around Christian. The writer moved back onto the ghost's lap and Erik placed a small kiss behind his ear. Christian felt warmth spread through him and wondered if his heart would burst from pleasure overload. And just as suddenly, everything left his head as the ghost murmured the tune the monkey was emitting.

'_Masquerade,_

_Paper faces on parade…_

_Masquerade,_

_Hide your face_

_So the world will never find you...'_

Christian had his eyes closed; Erik had an amazing voice. He smiled – he was a sucker for that voice and apparently the ghost liked it when he sang too. He couldn't understand why for his voice barely lit a candle compared to Erik's yet he had a feeling the ghost would deny that.

The monkey stopped.

'_Christian, I love you_,' Erik finished, resting his head on the writer's shoulder. Christian wondered if Erik could hear his heart racing. After a minute he asked, 'Are you reading over my shoulder?'

'Not allowed,' Erik recited, and Christian could picture the ghost rolling his eyes. Christian laughed and finished the sentence. 'Can now.'

Erik's head perked up. 'You're finished? That didn't take long,' he added, amazed.

'I knew what I was writing,' Christian shrugged, a little embarrassed.

Erik noticed this and smiled as Christian handed him the papers over his shoulder. The ghost leaned further back so he could read the pages between himself and the writer. 'Planning on showing this to the managers?'

Christian laughed dryly. 'Somehow I doubt it.'

He felt anxious as Erik flicked through the pages, eyes focusing on nothing but the words. When it had been about five minutes and he knew Erik had gathered the information in his head of what the story was about. And when the ghost looked up to smirk at him Christian couldn't help but look at the portcullis.

'Christian?'

'Yep?'

'This story is about a man who calls himself a ghost that lives in an opera house and a penniless writer.'

Christian felt himself blushing. 'Yep,' he said again, nodding at the portcullis and refusing to look away from it. Erik put the pages down and snaked his arms around Christian's stomach, pulling _his _writer closer. He smirked at the startled noise that came out of the writer's mouth and nuzzled his neck, before kissing up his neck to his jaw.

Christian grinned. 'Well, I'm glad you like it.' He felt the ghost's lips turn up in a smirk against his skin. He was starting to feel a lot warmer.

'You didn't bother to take the last page out of the typewriter,' Erik said thoughtfully, moving one hand under Christian's shirt comfortably enough.

'Really?' Christian asked, feeling his face heat up. Erik grinned. He loved how he could make the writer blush so easily.

Christian swallowed as Erik read the last page over his shoulder. He found himself skipping to the last sentence and reading it over and over again, waiting for Erik to get there.

_The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return. _

He heard the ghost chuckle. 'Couldn't resist that ending?' Erik asked, trying to sound serious as he began to unbutton the writer's shirt from bottom to top.

Christian smiled. 'I can change it if you want,' he trailed off as the ghost moved his hands back down to the writer's stomach.

'I like the hopeless romantic tinge,' Erik smirked. Christian sighed. 'One minute you chuck me in a lake, the next you're just begging me to kiss you.'

'This isn't begging,' the ghost replied sharply and Christian chuckled. 'And if it was?'

'I'd _admit _to it,' Erik answered charmingly, feeling that he probably wouldn't anyway but he could tell Christian that another time, he decided, as the writer's lips descended softly on his and he felt Christian turning around fully as to kiss him better. Erik felt his insides melt and realised his heart was about to explode from the joy it was holding; he welcomed the feeling.

He realised his eyes were closed when he felt Christian pull back; opening them, he blinked dazedly at the writer, who was grinning at him. 'Satisfied, beggar?' Christian teased, pulling the rest of his shirt off. Erik watched him as though hypnotised before grinning back. 'Are you _kidding_?' he asked, running his fingers lightly up Christian's sides; he remembered the writer saying he was ticklish. 'And _what _did you just call me?'

'Don't,' Christian begged, pulling back at the ghost's wicked grin. Then Erik had captured his lips with another kiss and Christian didn't have a mind to think with, which he was grateful for.

The monkey clicked its cymbals again and was very well ignored.

--

**I can't believe that's a wrap! I always get too involved in stories and then I don't want them to end... (cries)**

**Thanks a heap for the reviews!**

**Briannabanana79, thanks for the first review and for the word 'mansmex' lol!**

**J. Gatsby, thanks for the comment, twas very nice :)**

**Marching Clocks, thanks for the awesome long reviews that made me go 'YES!' fairly loudly while my friend was watching **_**Dracula 2000**_**!**

**VampiressKatasandra, thanks for introducing me to puppy chow (good stuff!) and for the wonderful reviews on basically every chapter that made me laugh!**

**BringMeToLife340, thanks for the little comment and I hope you enjoyed the rest of the story!**

**SuperStarStruck10, thanks for reviewing on every chappie and making the friend who co-wrote this run around her house yelling 'PAAAARRRTTAAAY!!!'**

**LadyVisionary, congrats for guessing the plot! :D**

**Trinity Le Faye, thank you for the latest review and I loved your Moulin Rouge poem! **

**Okay, yeah, that was really sappy but I have to thank you guys ;)! **

**And my friend/slash co-writer/now an auntie says she would totally love it if anyone wants to write this pairing. Just an idea. And I probably will put more of these stories up, I love these characters too much!!!**

**Okay, now I'm gonna go **_**Phantom of the Opera **_**out; signing off, grimmy.**

**P.S. I hope you enjoyed the story :) **


End file.
